From that moment the Commons began to be transformed. The fairies resumed their brightness, and shone with light which would have dazzled humanity had eyes of clay been able to realize immortal glories. The clock stopped--its mechanism was more atune to elf-influence than that of the prose-builders below. Members--for no particular reason that they knew--came trooping in; and within ten minutes every green bench on the floor of the House and in the galleries was packed. June spread her wings, and flew over the heads of the legislators. Her companions followed her example. With wands they tapped the mighty brows of legislators, and prepared their minds for obedience. Members wearing hats were poked in the nape of the neck. All--without exception--were inoculated with magic. The Irish party became a little uproarious, and effectively facetious. The stream of prose went on. June gave Bim her wand, and bade him take the chair. He gravely clambered along the Treasury table, came to the trio of clerks, and, after bowing with due respect thrice, according to usage--his seat on the mace had touched him with Parliamentary decorum--the intrepid adventurer climbed the Speaker’s robes and squatted soberly upon his wig. The dignity of Parliament was enhanced. The gnome knew he was making history, so he took care to keep awake. Mr. Speaker began to feel strangely nervous, to have forebodings--as if an unexpected precedent was about to be established. Meanwhile the stream of prose went on. The present malefactor was ----, but his name shall not be immortalized! This is all I will say, O reader: he was of the opposite school of politics to you. Even members on his own side of the House began to be impatient. A few cried "’Vide!" but only feebly. His misdoing was condoned by the general indifference. He went on lamenting and lamely protesting that the Government in the King’s Speech had not included a Bill to regulate Charity Bazaars, and was endeavouring to institute a comparison with the social system of the ancient Assyrians. His peroration had been misplaced; he had begun with it. He had reached his seventhly. There were no signs of the approaching end, no means whatever of computing when that might be. He merely went on. His speech was like a long and muddy road on a splashy wet night. June crowned Geoffrey. Obediently he rose. "Mr. Speaker," he said, with the gesture that practice in the bedroom had made perfect. "This intolerable flow of drivel----" "Order! Order!" cried a hundred voices. The interrupted orator turned round to stare at Geoffrey with eyes of angry surprise. Intervention came from the proper place. The Speaker was on his feet. Bim clung to the wig to prevent his displacement.