o believe in himself again."

At last Paul's opportunity arrived. The Whips had given him his chance
to speak. His luck attended him, in so far that when his turn came he
found a full House. It was on a matter of no vital importance; but he
had prepared his speech carefully. He stood up for the first time in
that strangely nerve-shaking assembly in which he had been received so
coldly and in which he was still friendless, and saw the beginning of
the familiar exodus into the lobbies. A sudden wave of anger swept
through him and he tore the notes of his speech across and across, and
again he metaphorically kicked Billy Goodge. He plunged into his
speech, forgetful of what he had written, with a passion queerly
hyperbolic in view of the subject. At the arresting tones of his voice
many of the withdrawing members stopped at the bar and listened, then
as he proceeded they gradually slipped back into their places.
Curiosity gave place to interest. Paul had found his gift again, and
his anger soon lost itself completely in the joy of the artist. The
House is always generous to performance. There was something novel in
the spectacle of this young man, who had come there under a cloud,
standing like a fearless young Hermes before them, in the ring of his
beautiful voice, in the instinctive picturesqueness of phrase, in the
winning charm of his personality. It was but a little point in a
Government Bill that he had to deal with, and he dealt with it shortly.
But he dealt with it in an unexpected, dramatic way, and he sat down
amid comforting applause and circumambient smiles and nods. The old
government hand who rose to reply complimented him gracefully and
proceeded of course to tear his argument to tatters. Then an
ill-conditioned Socialist Member got up, and, blundering and
unconscious agent of Destiny in a fast-emptying House, began a personal
attack on Paul. Whereupon there were cries of "Shame!" and "Sit down!"
and the Speaker, in caustic tones, counselled relevancy, and the
sympathy of the House went out to the Fortunate Youth; so that when he
went soon afterwards into the outer lobby--it was the dinner hour--he
found himself surrounded by encouraging friends. He did not wait long
among them, for up in the Ladies' Gallery was his Princess. He tore up
the stairs and met her outside. Her face was pale with anger.

"The brute!" she whispered. "The cowardly brute!"

He snapped his fingers. "Canaille, canaille! He counts for