heads! There's nothing else to be said. I took the speeches for young men's
nonsense--just midsummer madness, but I find people very angry. _Your_
son! one of _us_!"

"I thought the speeches very clever," said Lady Coryston.

"I'm rejoiced you take it so philosophically, my dear Emilia!"--the tone
was a little snappish--"I confess I thought you would have been much
distressed."

"What's the good of being distressed? I have known Coryston's opinions for
a long time. One has to _act_--of course," the speaker added, with
deliberation.

"Act? I don't understand."

Lady Coryston did not enlighten her. Indeed, she did not hear her. She was
bending forward eagerly. The fair-haired youth on the back benches, who had
been so long waiting his turn, was up at last.

It was a maiden speech, and a good one, as such things go. There was enough
nervousness and not too much; enough assurance and not too much. The facts
and figures in it had been well arranged. A modest jest or two tripped
pleasantly out; and the general remarks at the end had been well chosen
from the current stock, and were not unduly prolonged. Altogether a
creditable effort, much assisted by the young man's presence and manner. He
had no particular good looks, indeed; his nose ascended, his chin satisfied
no one; but he had been a well-known bat in the Oxford eleven of his day,
and was now a Yeomanry officer; he held himself with soldierly erectness,
and his slender body, cased in a becoming pale waistcoat under his tail