I remember one ardent Gladstonian who, as a general election drew near, was in sore straits indeed, for he disbelieved in Home Rule, and yet how could he vote against 'Gladstone's man'?
His distress was so real that it gave him a hang-dog appearance.

He put his case gloomily before her, and until the day of the election she riddled him with sarcasm; I think he only went to her because he found a mournful enjoyment in seeing a false Gladstonian tortured.
It was all such plain-sailing for him, she pointed out; he did not like this Home Rule, and therefore he must vote against it.
She put it pitiful clear, he replied with a groan.
But she was like another woman to him when he appeared before her on his way to the polling-booth.
'This is a watery Sabbath to you, I'm thinking,' she said sympathetically, but without dropping her wires--for Home Rule or no Home Rule that stocking-foot must be turned before twelve o'clock.
A watery Sabbath means a doleful day, and 'A watery Sabbath it is,' he replied with feeling.

A silence followed, broken only by the click of the wires.

Now and again he would mutter, 'Ay, well, I'll be going to vote--little did I think the day would come,' and so on, but if he rose it was only to sit down again, and at last she crossed over to him and said softly, (no sarcasm in her voice now), 'Away with you, and vote for Gladstone's man!' He jumped up and made off without a word, but from the east window we watched him strutting down the brae.

I laughed, but she said, 'I'm no sure that it's a laughing matter,' and afterwards, 'I would have liked fine to be that Gladstone's mother.' It is nine o'clock now, a quarter-past nine, half-past nine--all the same moment to me, for I am at a sentence that will not write.