However, by dint of shouting pacific language at the top of his voice, the chairman succeeded at last in restoring tranquillity. More grog was brought in, snuff-boxes were handed about, hands were shaken across the table, and loud cheers greeted the sentiment delivered by a gentleman who appeared to be vice-chairman: “That ’armony of feeling was the music of humanity.” Mr. Harris apologised for having sung anything distasteful to the company, who he hoped were all his very good friends; and amid the clanking of spoons in glasses, and polite calls of “After you” for lighted spills, the conversation streamed into milder channels, and everybody did his best to look harmonious. Though Holdsworth was a good deal amused by this scene, and by the manners and dress of the people around him, he hardly felt himself equal to enduring very much more of this social harmony, and sat twisting his glass on the table, watching the faces of the company, and waiting for another “row” to make his escape without attracting notice. He was presently addressed by a man sitting on his left--a middle-aged individual, with a thin, smooth-shaven face and a keen eye, and very high shirt-collars. “A stranger, I make bold to think, sir?” “Yes,” answered Holdsworth. “I judge so by an air of travel about you, if you’ll pardon me. Forgive me, sir, if I inquire your secret--understand me--your secret opinion as to that song just sung by the gentleman opposite.” “To tell you the truth,” replied Holdsworth, who imagined that his companion wanted to draw him into a political argument, “I only caught a few of the verses, and am therefore scarcely able to give an opinion.” “Humph!” exclaimed the other. “Now, sir, _I_ call that song clever--damned clever, and I’ll tell you why: it’s ironical. Without irony, sir, I wouldn’t give a pin’s head for the best piece of humour in the world. You’ll excuse what I am about to say, sir, I’m sure. You are a traveller--I flatter myself I can tell that with half an eye. Now, sir, as a man who has visited other countries, and observed human nature in a hundred different forms, you can’t help being a Whig. Confess, sir, that you share my political views, which are those of a man who has only one cry--‘Down with rubbish!’” “I hate rubbish as much as any man,” replied Holdsworth. His companion looked struck and delighted. “Your hand, sir. Permit me to shake it. I love a Whig, sir. Here’s to your good health.” “Are you a native of this country, sir?” he continued, glancing at Holdsworth’s dress, which had a decidedly colonial cut. “I believe so.” “But not a resident?” said the other, whose turn of mind was decidedly inquisitive. “No.” “Now what part might you have come from, sir, if you’ll excuse the liberty?” asked the man confidently. “From Australia.” “God bless my heart and soul! You don’t say so! Dear me! Australia! Is it possible? I consider myself a bit of a traveller; but in your presence, sir, I feel my insignificance.”