On this particular afternoon Ferrier had been dealing with the Government Bill on the lines laid down by the meeting at Grenville House. His large pale face (the face of a student rather than a politician), with its small eyes and overhanging brows; the straight hair and massive head; the heavy figure closely buttoned in the familiar frock-coat; the gesture easy, animated, still young--on these well-known aspects a crowded House had bent its undivided attention. Then Ferrier sat down; a bore rose; and out flowed the escaping tide to the lobbies and the Terrace. Marsham found himself on the Terrace, among a group of malcontents: Barton, grim and unkempt, prophet-eyes blazing, mouth contemptuous; the Scotchman McEwart, who had been one of the New Year's visitors to Tallyn, tall, wiry, red-haired, the embodiment of all things shrewd and efficient; and two or three more. A young London member was holding forth, masking what was really a passion of disgust in a slangy nonchalance. "What's the good of turning these fellows out--will anybody tell me?--if that's all Ferrier can do for us? Think I prefer 'em to that kind of mush! As for Barton, I've had to hold him down by the coat-tails!" Barton allowed the slightest glint of a smile to show itself for an instant. The speaker--Roland Lankester--was one of his few weaknesses. But the frown returned. He strolled along with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground; his silence was the silence of one in whom the fire was hot. "Most disappointing--all through!" said McEwart, with emphasis. "The facts wrongly chosen--the argument absurd. It'll take all the heart out of our fellows in the country." Marsham looked up. "Well, it isn't for want of pressure. Ferrier's life hasn't been worth living this last month." The tone was ambiguous. It fitted either with defence or indictment. The London member--Roland Lankester, who was a friend of Marion Vincent, and of Frobisher, represented an East End constituency, and lived there--looked at the speaker with a laugh. "That's perfectly true. What have we all been doing but 'gingering' Ferrier for the last six months? And here's the result! No earthly good in wearing one's self to fiddle-strings over this election! I shall go and keep pigs in Canada!" The group strolled along the Terrace, leaving behind them an animated crowd, all busy with the same subject. In the middle of it they passed Ferrier himself--flushed--with the puffy eyes of a man who never gets more than a quarter allowance of sleep; his aspect, nevertheless, smiling and defiant, and a crowd of friends round him. The wind blew chill up the river, crisping the incoming tide; and the few ladies who were being entertained at tea drew their furs about them, shivering. "He'll _have_ to go to the Lords!--that's flat--if we win this election. If we come back, the new members will never stand him; and if we don't--well, I suppose, in that case, he does as well as anybody else."