IT all started one afternoon early in May when I came out of the House of Commons with Tommy Deloraine.
And the frowst on those back benches Was there ever such a moth-eaten old museum?". "What a juggins I am to be mouldering here Joggleberry is the celestial limit, what they call in happier lands the pink penultimate. "This about finishes me," he groaned.
Tommy sniffed the spring breeze like a supercilious stag.
The contrast between the frowsy place and the cheerful world outside would have impressed even the soul of a Government Whip.
Inside a dull debate was winding on, and an advertising member had been trying to get up a row with the Speaker.
Out of doors it was jolly spring weather; there was greenery in Parliament Square and bits of gay colour, and a light wind was blowing up from the river.
It was before Tommy succeeded, in the days when he sat for the family seat in Yorkshire, and that afternoon he was in a powerful bad temper.
I had got in by an accident at a by-election, when I was supposed to be fighting a forlorn hope, and as I was just beginning to be busy at the Bar I found my hands pretty full.
IT all started one afternoon early in May when I came out of the House of Commons with Tommy Deloraine
