Into this crowd stepped the tall figure of the young workman; his face white, half with exhaustion, half with emotion; his lips set, his deep-set eyes glooming beneath the pain-drawn brows. He looked neither to right nor left of him, but leaning against the wall, plunged his hands into his pockets and waited. There was a kind of network of railings before the door, through which the people had to pass in single file, to prevent their all crowding in together, and Myles, like the rest, had to wait his turn. Most men have to go through one or two _mauvais quarts d’heure_ in the course of their lives, but few can have surpassed in bitterness the minutes which Myles Heywood spent, waiting his turn, before the door of the committee-room. Some one recognised him, spoke to him, and said she had never expected to see him there. He answered mechanically and composedly, but felt his face suddenly grow fierily hot; and then a little push from behind warned him to move on, and he obeyed it. He entered the large room in company with several other people, and there were more than a dozen gentlemen seated round the table in the middle of the room. But from the moment in which he entered and saw a face raised, a pair of eyes fixed in pitying astonishment upon him, he felt as if he were alone with one man, and that man Sebastian Mallory. Strange to say, he had never remembered, had scarcely been conscious of the fact, that Mallory was one of the most important members of this very committee. He knew it now--realised it with heart and brain and consciousness, as the face of his rival ‘Flashed like a cymbal on his face,’ and for a moment the sense of degradation, of humiliation, burned and scorched him, and he felt almost mad. Almost--but no; reason was still the stronger. The remembrance of his own utter destitution, the distinct, imperative call of sickness and hunger, the clear knowledge that there was no alternative, prevailed. He did not turn round and walk away. He remained, but how he dragged his feet towards the desk of the man who was asking questions, he knew not. How he answered those questions remained also a mystery to him. The gentlemen heard him, noted his address, and said he would see that the case was inquired into. Myles felt no resentment at the idea of his statements being thought to require investigation: whether because his pride had been once for all laid low, or whether from sheer weakness and dulness of sense, he did not know. He was turning away and wondering when the inquiries would be made, and how much longer he would be able to hold out, when Sebastian Mallory, for the first time removing his attention from the writing in which he had apparently been engrossed, said composedly, ‘There is no need to trouble the visitor to inquire into that case, Mr. Whitaker. I can vouch for the truth of every word of it. I should recommend you to write a ticket and pay the sum required at once.’