“And here let me say,” he remarked, pausing from the reading of his minutes of his last conversation with Volkonsky, “that in some of my language and stipulations I had no authority from either the President or Secretary of State--but with the impetuosity of all honest men, I felt a profound indignation at a man of the late Minister’s character, daring to present himself as an accredited agent to this Government. In many of these instances, as for example, when I stipulated that the late Minister should not presume to shake hands with the President at his parting interview, or address him in any way, no doubt the late Minister supposed that I was instructed to make that stipulation. Sir, I was not. It was an outburst of feeling. I felt so clearly that no man of Volkonsky’s character should be permitted to touch the hand of the President of the United States, that I said so--and said so in such a way that the late Minister supposed I had the President’s authority for it.” At this, there was an outburst of applause. The Speaker made no move to check it. Pembroke bowed slightly, and resumed in his calm and piercing voice. Members of the House and Senate had settled themselves to hear a speech. In five minutes the old stagers had found out that there was the making of a great parliamentary speaker in this stalwart dark young man. Members leaned back and touched each other. Pens refrained from scratching. The pages, finding nothing to do, crept toward the Speaker’s desk and sat down on the carpeted steps. One little black-eyed fellow fixed his gaze on Pembroke’s face, and at the next point he made, the page, without waiting for his elders, suddenly clapped furiously. A roar of laughter and applause followed. Pembroke smiled, and did not break silence again until the Speaker gave him a slight inclination of the head. In that pause he had glanced at Olivia in the gallery. Her face was crimson with pride and pleasure. Outside in the corridors, the word had gone round that there was something worth listening to going on inside. The aisles became packed. A slight disturbance behind him showed Pembroke that a contingent of women was being admitted to the floor--and before him, in the reporters’ gallery, where men were usually moving to and fro, every man was at his post, and there was no passing in and out. Pembroke began to feel a sense of triumph. His easy, but forcible delivery was not far from eloquence. He felt the pulse of his audience, as it were. At first, when he began, it was entirely cold and critical, while his blood leaped like fire through his veins, and it took all his will-power to maintain his appearance of coolness. But as his listeners warmed up, he cooled off. The more subtly he wrought them up, the more was he master of himself. His nerve did not once desert him.