not even give himself a moment’s reflection as to what his own speech should be.  He would dash at it and take his chance, resolved that at least he would not fail in courage.  Twice he was on his legs before Mr. Western had finished his slow harangue, and twice he was compelled to reseat himself,—­thinking that he had subjected himself to ridicule.  At last the member for East Barset sat down, and Phineas was conscious that he had lost a moment or two in presenting himself again to the Speaker.

He held his ground, however, though he saw that he had various rivals for the right of speech.  He held his ground, and was instantly aware that he had gained his point.  There was a slight pause, and as some other urgent member did not reseat himself, Phineas heard the president of that august assembly call upon himself to address the House.  The thing was now to be done.  There he was with the House of Commons at his feet,—­a crowded House, bound to be his auditors as long as he should think fit to address them, and reporters by tens and twenties in the gallery ready and eager to let the country know what the young member for Loughshane would say in this his maiden speech.

Phineas Finn had sundry gifts, a powerful and pleasant voice, which he had learned to modulate, a handsome presence, and a certain natural mixture of modesty and self-reliance, which would certainly protect him from the faults of arrogance and pomposity, and which, perhaps, might carry him through the perils of his new position.  And he had also the great advantage of friends in the House who were anxious that he should do well.  But he had not that gift of slow blood which on the former occasion would have enabled him to remember his prepared speech, and which would now have placed all his own resources within his own reach.  He began with the expression of an opinion that every true reformer ought to accept Mr. Mildmay’s bill, even if it were accepted only as an instalment,—­but before he had got through these sentences, he became painfully conscious that he was repeating his own words.

He was cheered almost from the outset, and yet he knew as he went on that he was failing.  He had certain arguments at his fingers’ ends,—­points with which he was, in truth, so familiar that he need hardly have troubled himself to arrange them for special use,—­and he forgot even these.  He found that he was going on with one platitude after another as to the benefit of reform, in a manner that would have shamed him six or seven years ago at a debating club.  He pressed on, fearing that words would fail him altogether if he paused;—­but he did in truth speak very much too fast, knocking his words together so that no reporter could properly catch them.  But he had nothing to say for the bill except what hundreds had said before, and hundreds would say again.  Still he was cheered, and still he went on; and as he became more and more conscious of his failure there grew upon him the idea,—­the dangerous hope, that he might still save himself from ignominy by the eloquence of his invective against the police.