s
even a decade ago.  True, Members are sometimes called to St. Stephen's
in October and November, and thus have their vacation plans for Cairo or
the Riviera considerably disarranged; yet the patriotic M.P. now finds
the House the best and cheapest club in London, where he can, if he
chooses, live upon ninepenny steaks and drink gin at twopence a
glassful!  Indeed, nowadays there seems more dining than politics, and
more brilliant entertaining than brilliant oratory.  There are many
distinct coteries in the House, as there must always be among men
divided in political opinion, but the coterie of entertainers is quite
definite and distinct.  Its members are those who have entered upon a
Parliamentary career as a gentleman's due.  They are the political
drones.  They rarely, if ever, speak, but with their many smart
lady-guests support the social side of Parliament right royally.  Harry
Benthall was one of these butterflies among legislators.  When he spoke,
the subject was usually connected with the personal comfort of Members.
Among the boiled-shirt brigade was a man who had sat in the House for
thirty years, and had only spoken once--a speech that lasted one minute;
while Mr. Kinnear, the Parliamentary diarist, has placed it on record
that a certain gentleman representing a county division sat in three
successive Governments without finding his way to the vote office!  The
whole life of such men is taken up in hunting for a "pair."  It is one
of the first duties he feels he owes to himself and to his friends of
the dining-room, or of that latter-day annexe to Mayfair, the Terrace.
Indeed, so popular became the Terrace a couple of seasons ago that each
afternoon it was crowded by _grandes dames_ and young legislators, and
flirting, tea-drinking, and strawberry-eating went on to such an extent
that the merrymaking seriously threatened to stop legislation
altogether.  So that awe-inspiring functionary, the Serjeant-at-Arms,
acting quietly but firmly, issued such orders that "at homes" in
Parliament were suddenly d