A debate of some importance was going on in the House of Commons.  The Tory Government had brought in a Land Bill, intended, no doubt, rather as bait for electors than practical politics.  It was timid and ill-drafted, and the Opposition, in days when there were still some chances in debate, joyously meant to kill it, either by frontal attack or by obstruction.  But, in the opinion of the Left Wing of the party, the chief weapon of its killing should be the promise of a much larger and more revolutionary measure from the Liberal side.  The powerful Right Wing, however, largely represented on the front bench, held that you could no more make farmers than saints by Act of Parliament, and that only by slow and indirect methods could the people be drawn back to the land.  There was, in fact, little difference between them and the front bench opposite, except a difference in method; only the Whig brains were the keener; and in John Ferrier the Right Wing had a personality and an oratorical gift which the whole Tory party admired and envied.

There had been a party meeting on the subject of the Bill, and Ferrier and the front bench had, on the whole, carried the indorsement of their policy.  But there was an active and discontented minority, full of rebellious projects for the general election.

On this particular afternoon Ferrier had been dealing with the Government Bill on the lines laid down by the meeting at Grenville House.  His large pale face (the face of a student rather than a politician), with its small eyes and overhanging brows; the straight hair and massive head; the heavy figure closely buttoned in the familiar frock-coat; the gesture easy, animated, still young—­on these well-known aspects a crowded House had bent its undivided attention.  Then Ferrier sat down; a bore rose; and out flowed the escaping tide to the lobbies and the Terrace.

Marsham found himself on the Terrace, among a group of malcontents:  Barton, grim and unkempt, prophet-eyes blazing, mouth contemptuous; the Scotchman McEwart, who had been one of the New Year’s visitors to Tallyn, tall, wiry, red-haired, the embodiment of all things shrewd and efficient; and two or three more.  A young London member was holding forth, masking what was really a passion of disgust in a slangy nonchalance.

“What’s the good of turning these fellows out—­will anybody tell me?—­if that’s all Ferrier can do for us?  Think I prefer ’em to that kind of mush!  As for Barton, I’ve had to hold him down by the coat-tails!”

Barton allowed the slightest glint of a smile to show itself for an instant.  The speaker—­Roland Lankester—­was one of his few weaknesses.  But the frown returned.  He strolled along with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground; his silence was the silence of one in whom the fire was hot.

“Most disappointing—­all through!” said McEwart, with emphasis.  “The facts wrongly chosen—­the argument absurd.  It’ll take all the heart out of our fellows in the country.”