Casey was the first man to cease talking about the speech.  He had already betrayed himself about it more than he meant.  He belonged to the New Unionism, and affected a costume in character—­fustian trousers, flannel shirt, a full red tie and work-man’s coat, all well calculated to set off a fine lion-like head and broad shoulders.  He had begun life as a bricklayer’s labourer, and was now the secretary of a recently formed Union.  His influence had been considerable, but was said to be already on the wane; though it was thought likely that he would win a seat in the coming Parliament.

The other two men were Molloy, secretary to the congress, short, smooth-faced, and wiry, a man whose pleasant eye and manner were often misleading, since he was in truth one of the hottest fighting men of a fighting movement; and Wilkins, a friend of Casey’s—­ex-iron worker, Union official, and Labour candidate for a Yorkshire division—­an uneducated, passionate fellow, speaking with a broad, Yorkshire accent, a bad man of affairs, but honest, and endowed with the influence which comes of sincerity, together with a gift for speaking and superhuman powers of physical endurance.

“Well, I’m glad it’s over,” said Wharton, throwing himself into a chair with a long breath, and at the same time stretching out his hand to ring the bell.  “Casey, some whisky?  No?  Nor you, Wilkins? nor Molloy?  As for you, Bennett, I know it’s no good asking you.  By George! our grandfathers would have thought us a poor lot!  Well, some coffee at any rate you must all of you have before you go back.  Waiter! coffee.  By the way, I have been seeing something of Hallin, Bennett, down in the country.”

He took out his cigarette case as he spoke, and offered it to the others.  All refused except Molloy.  Casey took his half-smoked pipe out of his pocket and lit up.  He was not a teetotaler as the others were, but he would have scorned to drink his whisky and water at the expense of a “gentleman” like Wharton, or to smoke the “gentleman’s” cigarettes.  His class-pride was irritably strong.  Molloy, who was by nature anybody’s equal, took the cigarette with an easy good manners, which made Casey look at him askance.

Mr. Bennett drew his chair close to Wharton’s.  The mention of Hallin had roused a look of anxiety in his quick dark eyes.

“How is he, Mr. Wharton?  The last letter I had from him he made light of his health.  But you know he only just avoided a breakdown in that strike business.  We only pulled him through by the skin of his teeth—­Mr. Raeburn and I.”

“Oh, he’s no constitution; never had, I suppose.  But he seemed much as usual.  He’s staying with Raeburn, you know, and I’ve been staying with the father of the young lady whom Raeburn ’s going to marry.”

“Ah!  I’ve heard of that,” said Bennett, with a look of interest.  “Well, Mr. Raeburn isn’t on our side, but for judgment and fair dealing there are very few men of his class and circumstances I would trust as I would him.  The lady should be happy.”