'd better be there to-night,« the journalist continued. »I shall
be more useful there than at the hall.«
    »As you like,« said Mutimer lightly.
    The subject was not pursued.
    Though the occasion was of so much importance, Commonwealth Hall contained
but a moderate audience when Mr. Westlake rose to deliver his address. The
people who occupied the benches were obviously of a different stamp from those
wont to assemble at the Hoxton meeting-place. There were perhaps a dozen
artisans of intensely sober appearance, and the rest were men and women who
certainly had never wrought with their hands. Near Mrs. Westlake sat several
ladies, her personal friends. Of the men other than artisans the majority were
young, and showed the countenance which bespeaks meritorious intelligence rather
than ardour of heart or brain. Of enthusiasts in the true sense none could be
discerned. It needed but a glance over this assembly to understand how very
theoretical were the convictions that had brought its members together.
    Mr. Westlake's address was interesting, very interesting; he had prepared it
with much care, and its literary qualities were admired when subsequently it saw
the light in one of the leading periodicals. Now and then he touched eloquence;
the sincerity animating him was unmistakable, and the ideal he glorified was
worthy of a noble mind. Not in anger did he speak of the schism from which the
movement was suffering; even his sorrow was dominated by a gospel of hope.
Optimism of the most fervid kind glowed through his discourse; he grew almost
lyrical in his anticipation of the good time coming. For to-night it seemed to
him that encouragement should be the prevailing note; it was always easy to see
the dark side of things. Their work, he told his hearers, was but just
beginning. They aimed at nothing less than a revolution, and revolutions were
not brought about in a day. None of them would in the flesh behold the reign of
justice; was that a reason why they should neglect the highest impulses of their
nature and sit contented in the shadow of the world's mourning? He spoke with
passion of the millions disinherited before their birth, with infinite
tenderness of those weak ones whom our social system condemns to a life of
torture just because they are weak. One loved the man for his great heart and
for his gift of moving speech.
    His wife sat, as she always did when listening intently, her body bent
forward, one hand supporting her chin. Her eyes never quitted his face.
    To the second speaker it had fallen to handle in