But hissing was contrary to the dictates of good manners in such an assembly, and the chairman called to order. Rosalie sat down trembling, all colour gone from her face, though she had sufficient strength of will to keep her from giving any further signs of the ordeal she had passed through. Her eyes travelled magnetically from the face of the Golden Priest to that of Mr. Barringcourt. He was leaning forward, his elbow on the table, looking at her. In his eyes shone the old mocking, laughing light, that said in so many silent words, “Now you’ve put your foot into it.” They showed no sympathy. Then a man, seizing the opportunity, got up and spoke in favour of Phillipus; another, then another. The tide seemed turning—was turning. Rosalie sat as an icicle. Every now and again she felt the sinister eyes from below, the laughing ones from above, fixed on her. Who would have thought the popularity of a man hung on such a little thing as a handkerchief? Then at last Mr. Barringcourt got up. In the midst of passion and eloquence, he was passionless. In spite of his height, in spite of his deep, unfathomable eyes, in spite of his firm mouth and certain lines upon his face, he seemed to be by far the youngest who had spoken, in manner, in voice, in a certain confident easiness. People settled in their places, smiled when he smiled, and became suddenly more good-natured, for at times he had a very bewitching smile. Rosalie looked at him. She recognised that in Lucifram she had never seen so handsome a man, or one with so much grace. A dull pain and a sharp pain struck at her heart together. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, for on these occasions titles were disregarded by the speaker, “the record speech of the evening has been delivered by a lady with a style and simplicity it would be impossible for us to beat.” (Popular opinion fluctuated. Was Rosalie so bad as five minutes before they had imagined? The speaker spoke so easily, he made them feel more easy. Wonderful gift of oratory!) “Now I agree with my friend, the Golden Priest Alphonso, the lady should have spoken earlier, when things could have been righted. But her silence no doubt sprang from the best intentions.” “That’s all very well,” called a voice. “But what about going into the sacred place against orders?” “When one is in earnest, one goes much farther than one intends. It’s an unconscious action. The lady said she was in earnest; she has accounted for what she did.” “She’s liable to severe punishment.” “So then are all the women who looked at the Serpent when the curtain fell. I remember hearing a conversation between two sisters who were present at that—that unfortunate service. One fainted, the other retained presence of mind. Since then they have scarcely spoken—one was enabled to see so much more than the other. It is generally acknowledged that all women worthy the name did what was natural.”