The Rose and the Yew Tree. Агата Кристи

looked at me and twinkled. I grinned back at him. In that moment I fell under his charm.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Labour’s really my ticket.’

      ‘But you don’t believe in their programme?’ I suggested.

      He said easily, ‘Oh, I’ve no beliefs. With me it’s purely a matter of expediency. I’ve got to have a job. The war’s as good as over, and the plums will soon be snapped up. I’ve always thought I could make a name for myself in politics. You see if I don’t.’

      ‘So that’s why you’re a Tory? You prefer to be in the party that will be in power?’

      ‘Good Lord,’ he said. ‘You don’t think the Tories are going to get in, do you?’

      I said I certainly did think so. With a reduced majority.

      ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘Labour’s going to sweep the country. Their majority’s going to be terrific.’

      ‘But then—if you think so—’

      I stopped.

      ‘Why don’t I want to be on the winning side?’ He grinned. ‘My dear chap. That’s why I’m not Labour. I don’t want to be swamped in a crowd. The Opposition’s the place for me. What is the Tory Party anyway? Taken by and large it’s the most muddle-headed crowd of gentlemanly inefficients combined with unbusinesslike business men. They’re hopeless. They haven’t got a policy, and they’re all at sixes and sevens. Anyone with any ability at all will stick out a mile. You watch. I shall shoot up like a rocket!’

      ‘If you get in,’ I said.

      ‘Oh, I shall get in all right.’

      I looked at him curiously.

      ‘You really think so?’