e nakedness of the honourable gentleman's mind!"

The game was in his hands. Lord Faramond twisted a shoulder with
satisfaction, tossed a whimsical look down the line of the Treasury
Bench, and from that Bench came unusual applause.

"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 h