the Premier already on his legs.
The floor and the galleries were crowded, and the space allotted to
ladies--there was no grating in New Lindsey, as Eleanor Scaife had
already recorded in her note-book--was bright with gay colours. Sir
Robert and Mr. Kilshaw slipped into their places just in time to see
Medland stoop down to Norburn, who sat next him, and whisper to him.
Norburn nodded with a defiant air, and Medland, with a slight frown,
proceeded. The Premier had no easy task. Puttock had fallen on his flank
with skill and effect, and Norburn, who followed, had increased his
leader's difficulties by a brilliant but indiscreet series of tilts
against every section except that to which he himself belonged; Jewell
had answered powerfully, and Coxon had coughed and fidgeted. The Premier
was now skilfully paring away what his lieutenant had said, and
justifying every proposition he advanced by a reference to Mr. Puttock's
previous speeches. Mr. Puttock, in his turn, fidgeted, and Coxon smiled
sardonically. The Premier, encouraged by this success, pulled himself
together and approached the last and most delicate part of his task,
which was to defend or palliate a phrase of Norburn's that had been
greeted with angry groans and protests. Mr. Norburn had in fact referred
to the Capitalist class as a "parasitic growth," and Medland was left to
get out of this indiscretion as best he could. He referred to the
unhappy phrase. The storm which had greeted its first appearance broke
out again. There were cries of "Withdraw!" Mr. Kilshaw called out, "Do
you adopt that? Yes or no;" Norburn's followers cheered; redoubled
groans answered them; Eleanor made notes, and Alicia's eyes were fixed
on Medland, who stood silent and smiling.

Kilshaw cried again, "Do you adopt it?"

Medland turned towards him, and in slow and measured tones began to
describe a visit he had paid to Kilshaw's mill. He named no name, but
everybody knew to whose works he referred.

"There was a man there," he said, "working with a fever upon him; there
was a woman working--and by her, her baby, five days old; there were old
men who looked to no rest but the grave, and children who were always
too tired to play; there were girls without innocence, boys without
merriment, women without joy, men without hope. And, as I walked home in
the evening, back to my house, I met a string of race-horses; they were
in training, I was told, for the Kirton Cup; their owner spent