After a short preliminary argument as to legal forms between Christabel and the Magistrate and a pledge that she should be allowed to submit her objections later, there was a slight scuffling in those important side benches, the pew doors were opened, two of the gentlemen who had accompanied him stepped aside and Mr. Lloyd George, Chancellor of the Exchequer, came forward and passed across the court into the witness box. Seen for the first time, he is totally unlike what one has been led to expect. Instead of the romantic-looking Welsh bard, with black and very curly hair, portrayed by the newspaper cartoons and drawings, there stood, cooped up in the little witness box, with its useless-looking wooden canopy, a plain little man, with a pale face, a long untidy moustache and hair which, though he wears it somewhat long, as it is in the pictures, has not the least suspicion of a curl but lies limp and scanty and is a dull dingy brown. At first he leant his arm on the front of the witness box and looked across at the three prisoners in the dock. He regarded Christabel Pankhurst curiously, as well he might, for, in her fresh white muslin dress whose one note of colour was the broad band of purple white and green stripes around her waist, with her soft brown hair uncovered, the little silky curls with just a hint of gold in them clustering about her neck, and, in this dingy place, her skin looking even more brilliantly white and those rose petal cheeks of hers even more exquisitely and vividly flushed with purest pink than usual, she was as bright and dainty as a newly opened flower, and with all her look of perfect health and vigour, appeared so slender and so delicately knit as to have little more of substance in her than a briar rose. But she was to triumph over her opponent in the witness box, not by her grace and freshness and by the outer aspect of her vivid glowing personality, but by her sparkling wit, her biting sarcasm and by the force and depth of her arguments. And these went home, not merely as they can be set down here in cold dull print, but far more truly, because they were enhanced by the everchanging eloquence of gesture, voice, and facial expression--by a lift of the eyebrows, a turn of the head, a heightening of the lovely rose colour that flooded sometimes as far as the white throat and as quickly ebbed again, a sweep of the slender hand or a turn of that slight virile frame. All these, because so perfectly they echoed and expressed her thoughts, could lend to even the baldest and tritest words, a fanciful humour, a delicate irony, or an inexorable force.