He stood for a moment silent before the assembly, and then all the old fire that had lain dormant for so long blazed forth in the speech that electrified the audience, was printed in all the papers afterward, and fitted into a political pamphlet.

He began with a comprehensive statement of facts, he drew large and logical deductions from them, and then lit up the whole subject with those brilliant flashes of wit and sarcasm for which he had been famous in bygone days.  More than that, a power unknown before had come to him; he felt the real knowledge and grasp of affairs which youth had denied him, and it was with an exultant thrill that his voice rang through the crowded hall, and stirred the hearts of men.  For the moment they felt as he felt, and thought as he thought, and a storm of applause arose as he ended—­applause that grew and grew until a few more pithy words were necessary from the orator before silence could be restored.

He made his way to the back of the hall for some water, and then, half exhausted, yet tingling still from the excitement, dropped into an empty chair by the side of Miss Wakeman.

“Well done, Billy,” she said, giving him a little approving tap with her fan.  “You were just fine.”  She gave him an upward glance from her large dark eyes.  “Do you know you haven’t spoken to me to-night, nor shaken hands with me?”

“Let us shake hands now,” he said, smiling, flushed with success, as he looked into the eyes of this very pretty woman.

“I shall take off my glove first—­such old friends as we are!  It must be a real ceremony.”

She laid a soft, white, dimpled hand, covered with glistening rings, in his outstretched palm, and gazed at him with coquettish plaintiveness.  “It’s so lovely to see you again!  Have you forgotten the night you kissed me?”

“I have thought of it daily,” he replied, giving her hand a hearty squeeze.  They both laughed, and he took a surreptitious peep at her from under his eyelids.  Marie Wakeman!  Yes, truly, the same, and with the same old tricks.  He had been married for nearly fourteen years, his children were half grown, he had long since given up youthful friskiness, but she was “at it” still.  Why, she had been older than he when they were boy and girl; she must be for—­He gazed at her soft, rounded, olive cheek, and quenched the thought.

“And you are very happy?” she pursued, with tender solicitude.  “Nettie makes you a perfect wife, I suppose.”

“Perfect,” he assented gravely.

“And you haven’t missed me at all?”

“Can you ask?” It was the way in which all men spoke to Marie Wakeman, married or single, rich or poor, one with another.  He laughed inwardly at his lapse into the expected tone.  “I feel that I really breathe for the first time in years, now that I’m with you again.  But how is it that you are not married?”