Mr. Tooting informed him.

"Women!"

"Hold on!" said Mr. Tooting, who had the true showman's instinct. "Can't
you see that folks are curious? They're afraid to come 'emselves, and
they're sendin' their wives and daughters. If you get the women tonight,
they'll go home and club the men into line."

Eight strokes boomed out from the tower of the neighbouring town hall,
and an expectant flutter spread over the audience,--a flatter which
disseminated faint odours of sachet and other mysterious substances in
which feminine apparel is said to the laid away. The stage was empty,
save for a table which held a pitcher of water and a glass.

"It's a pretty good imitation of a matinee," Hastings Weare remarked. "I
wonder whom the front seats are reserved for. Say, Victoria, there's your
friend Mr. Vane in the corner. He's looking over here."

"He has a perfect right to look where he chooses," said Victoria. She
wondered whether he would come over and sit next to her if she turned
around, and decided instantly that he wouldn't. Presently, when she
thought Hastings was off his guard, she did turn, to meet, as she
expected, Austen's glance fixed upon her. Their greeting was the signal
of two people with a mutual understanding. He did not rise, and although
she acknowledged to herself a feeling of disappointment, she gave him
credit for a nice comprehension of the situation. Beside him was his
friend Tom Gaylord, who presented to her a very puzzled face. And then,
if there had been a band, it would have been time to play "See, the
Conquering Hero Comes!"

Why wasn't there a band? No such mistake, Mr. Tooting vowed, should be
made at the next rally.

It was Mrs. Pomfret who led the applause from her box as the candidate
walked modestly up the side aisle and presently appeared, alone, on the
stage. The flutter of excitement was renewed, and this time it might
almost be called a flutter of apprehension. But we who have heard Mr.
Crewe speak are in no alarm for our candidate. He takes a glass of iced
water; he arranges, with the utmost sangfroid, his notes on the desk and
adjusts the reading light. Then he steps forward and surveys the
scattered groups.

"Ladies--" a titter ran through the audience,--a titter which started
somewhere in the near neighbourhood of Mr. Hastings Weare--and rose
instantly to several hysterical peals of feminine laughter. Mrs. Pomfret,
outraged, sweeps the frivolous offenders with her lorgnette; Mr. Cr