Fillmore spoke.

"I'm sure," said Fillmore, "you don't want a speech... Very good of
you to drink our health. Thank you."

He sat down.

The effect of these few simple words on the company was marked, but not
in every case identical. To the majority the emotion which they brought
was one of unmixed relief. There had been something so menacing, so easy
and practised, in Fillmore's attitude as he had stood there that the
gloomier-minded had given him at least twenty minutes, and even the
optimists had reckoned that they would be lucky if they got off with
ten. As far as the bulk of the guests were concerned, there was no
grumbling. Fillmore's, to their thinking, had been the ideal
after-dinner speech.

Far different was it with Mr. Maxwell Faucitt. The poor old man was
wearing such an expression of surprise and dismay as he might have worn
had somebody unexpectedly pulled the chair from under him. He was
feeling the sick shock which comes to those who tread on a non-existent
last stair. And Sally, catching sight of his face, uttered a sharp
wordless exclamation as if she had seen a child fall down and hurt
itself in the street. The next moment she had run round the table and
was standing behind him with her arms round his neck. She spoke across
him with a sob in her voice.

"My brother," she stammered, directing a malevolent look at the
immaculate Fillmore, who, avoiding her gaze, glanced down his nose and
smoothed another wrinkle out of his waistcoat, "has not said