Buggins retired sighing, to console himself with a pot of porter behind a large open office ledger, set up on end on a small table in the little lobby outside the private secretary's room. Buggins sighed again as he saw that the date made visible in the open book was almost as old as his own appointment; for such a book as this lasted long in the Petty Bag Office. A peer of high degree had been Lord Petty Bag in those days—one whom a messenger's heart could respect with infinite veneration, as he made his unaccustomed visits to the office with much solemnity perhaps four times during the season. The Lord Petty Bag then was highly regarded by his staff, and his coming among them was talked about for some hours previously and for some days afterward; but Harold Smith had bustled in and out like the managing clerk in a Manchester house. "The service is going to the dogs," said Buggins to himself, as he put down the porter-pot and looked up over the book at a gentleman who presented himself at the door.
"Mr. Robarts in his room?" said Buggins, repeating the gentleman's words. "Yes, Mr. Sowerby, you'll find him there—first door to the left." And then, remembering that the visitor was a county member, a position which Buggins regarded as next to that of a peer, he got up, and, opening the private secretary's door, ushered in the visitor.
Young Robarts and Mr. Sowerby had, of course, become acquainted in the days of Harold Smith's reign. During that short time the member for East Barset had on most days dropped in at the Petty Bag Office for a minute or two, finding out what the energetic cabinet minister was doing, chatting on semi-official subjects, and teaching the private secretary to laugh at his master. There was nothing, therefore, in his present visit which need appear to be singular, or which required any immediate special explanation. He sat himself down in his ordinary way, and began to speak of the subject of the day.
"We're all to go," said Sowerby.
"So I hear," said the private secretary. "It will give me no trouble; for, as the respectable Buggins says, we're in the Upper House now."
"What a delightful time those lucky dogs of lords do have!" said Sowerby. "No constituents, no turning out, no fighting, no necessity for political opinions—and, as a rule, no such opinions at all!"
