The atmosphere was very hot, and heavy with the scent of violets, which seemed to come from a large bunch worn by a slim standing girl. In front of the girl sat a lady who was evidently absorbed in the scene below. She rarely moved, except occasionally to put up an eyeglass the better to enable her to identify some face on the Parliamentary benches, or the author of some interruption to the speaker. Meanwhile the girl held her hands upon the back of the lady's chair, and once or twice stooped to speak to her. Next to this pair, but in a corner of the gallery, and occupying what seemed to be a privileged and habitual seat, was a woman of uncouth figure and strange headgear. Since the Opposition leader had risen, her attention had wholly wandered. She yawned perpetually, and talked a great deal to a lady behind her. Once or twice her neighbor threw her an angry glance. But it was too dark for her to see it; though if she had seen it she would have paid no attention. "Lady Coryston!" said a subdued voice. The lady sitting in front of the girl turned and saw an attendant beckoning. The girl moved toward him, and returned. "What is it, Marcia?" "A note from Arthur, mamma." A slip of paper was handed to Lady Coryston, who read it in the gloom with difficulty. Then she whispered to her daughter: "He hopes to get his chance about seven; if not then, after dinner." "I really don't think I can stay so long," said the girl, plaintively. "It's dreadfully tiring." "Go when you like," said her mother, indifferently. "Send the car back for me." She resumed her intent listening just as a smart sally from the speaker below sent a tumultuous wave of cheers and counter-cheers through his audience. "He can be such a buffoon, can't he?" said the stout lady in the corner to her companion, as she yawned again. She had scarcely tried to lower her voice. Her remark was, at any rate, quite audible to her next-door neighbor, who again threw her a swift, stabbing look, of no more avail, however, than its predecessors. "Who is that lady in the corner--do you mind telling me?" The query was timidly whispered in the ear of Marcia Coryston by a veiled lady, who on the departure of some other persons had come to stand beside her. "She is Mrs. Prideaux." said Miss Coryston, stiffly. "The wife of the Prime Minister!" The voice showed emotion. Marcia Coryston looked down upon the speaker with an air that said, "A country cousin, I suppose." But she whispered, civilly enough: "Yes. She always sits in that corner. Weren't you here when he was speaking?" "No--I've not long come in." The conversation dropped, just as the voice of the orator standing on the left of the Speaker rose to his peroration. It was a peroration of considerable eloquence, subtly graduated through a rising series of rhetorical questions, till it finally culminated and broke in the ringing sentences: