“Where the devil did he get it?” queried a Minister. “Out on the buffalo-trail,” replied Lord Faramond. “Good fellow!” In the Ladies Gallery, Delia clasped her mother’s hand with delight; in the Strangers Gallery, a man said softly, “Not so bad, Cadet.” Alice Wingfield’s face had a light of aching pleasure. “Gaston, Gaston!” she said, in a whisper heard only by the woman sitting next to her, who though a stranger gave a murmur of sympathy. Gaston made his last effort in a comparison of the state of the English people now and before she became Cromwell’s Commonwealth, and then incisively traced the social development onwards. It was the work of a man with a dramatic nature and a mathematical turn. He put the time, the manners, the movements, the men, as in a picture. Presently he grew scornful. His words came hotly, like whip-lashes. He rose to force and power, though his voice was never loud, rather concentrated, resonant. It dropped suddenly to a tone of persuasiveness and conciliation, and declaring that the bill would be merely vicious where it meant to be virtuous, ended with the question: “Shall we burn the house to roast the pig?” “That sounds American,” said the member for Burton-Halsey, “but he hasn’t an accent. Pig is vulgar though--vulgar.” “Make it Lamb--make it Lamb!” urged his neighbour. Meanwhile both sides applauded. Maiden speeches like this were not common. Lord Faramond turned round to him. Another member made way and Gaston leaned towards the Premier, who nodded and smiled. “Most excellent buffalo!” he said. “One day we will chain you--to the Treasury Bench.” Gaston smiled. “You are thought prudent, sir!” “Ah! an enemy hath said this.” Gaston looked towards the Ladies Gallery. Delia’s eyes were on him; Alice was gone. A half-hour later he stood in the lobby, waiting for Mrs. Gasgoyne, Lady Dargan, and Delia to come. He had had congratulations in the House; he was having them now. Presently some one touched him on the arm. “Not so bad, Cadet.” Gaston turned and saw his uncle. They shook hands. “You’ve a gift that way,” Ian Belward continued, “but to what good? Bless you, the pot on the crackling thorns! Don’t you find it all pretty hollow?” Gaston was feeling reaction from the nervous work. “It is exciting.” “Yes, but you’ll never have it again as to-night. The place reeks with smugness, vanity, and drudgery. It’s only the swells--Derby, Gladstone, and the few--who get any real sport out of it. I can show you much more amusing things.” “For instance?” “‘Hast thou forgotten me?’ You hungered for Paris and Art and the joyous life. Well, I’m ready. I want you. Paris, too, is waiting, and a good cuisine in a cheery menage. Sup with me at the Garrick, and I’ll tell you. Come along. Quis separabit?” “I have to wait for Mrs. Gasgoyne--and Delia.” “Delia! Delia! Goddess of proprieties, has it come to that!” He saw a sudden glitter in Gaston’s eyes, and changed his tone.