The hands of the clock on the front of the Strangers' Gallery were nearing
six. The long-expected introductory speech of the Minister in charge of the
new Land Bill was over, and the leader of the Opposition was on his feet.
The House of Commons was full and excited. The side galleries were no less
crowded than the benches below, and round the entrance-door stood a compact
throng of members for whom no seats were available. With every sentence,
almost, the speaker addressing the House struck from it assent or protest;
cheers and counter-cheers ran through its ranks; while below the gangway
a few passionate figures on either side, the freebooters of the two great
parties, watched one another angrily, sitting on the very edge of their
seats, like arrows drawn to the string.

Within that privileged section of the Ladies' Gallery to which only the
Speaker's order admits, there was no less agitation than on the floor
below, though the signs of it were less evident. Some half a dozen chairs
placed close against the grille were filled by dusky forms invisible, save
as a dim patchwork, to the House beneath them--women with their faces
pressed against the lattice-work which divided them from the Chamber,
endeavoring to hear and see, in spite of all the difficulties placed in
their way by a graceless Commons. Behind them stood other women, bending
forward sometimes over the heads of those in front, in the feverish effort
to catch the words of the speech. It was so dark in the little room that
no inmate of it could be sure of the identity of any other unless she was
close beside her; and it was pervaded by a constant soft _frou-frou_
of silk and satin, as persons from an inner room moved in and out, or some
lady silently gave up her seat to a new-comer, or one of those in front
bent over to whisper to a friend behind. The background of all seemed
filled with a shadowy medley of plumed hats, from which sometimes a face