Beatrice shook her head, and turned to go again.  She was afraid to spend so much on cabs, for she must get back to Bryngelly.

“I’ll take yer for eighteenpence, miss,” called out the other driver.  This offer she was about to accept when the first man interposed.

“You leave my fare alone, will yer?  Tell yer what, miss, I’m a gentleman, I am, and I’ll take yer for a bob.”

She smiled and entered the cab.  Then came a whirl of great gas-lit thoroughfares, and in a quarter of an hour they pulled up at the entrance to the House.  Beatrice paid the cabman his shilling, thanked him, and entered, only once more to find herself confused with a vision of white statues, marble floors, high arching roofs, and hurrying people.  An automatic policeman asked her what she wanted.  Beatrice answered that she wished to get into the House.

“Pass this way, then, miss—­pass this way,” said the automatic officer in a voice of brass.  She passed, and passed, and finally found herself in a lobby, among a crowd of people of all sorts—­seedy political touts, Irish priests and hurrying press-men.  At one side of the lobby were more policemen and messengers, who were continually taking cards into the House, then returning and calling out names.  Insensibly she drifted towards these policemen.

“Ladies’ Gallery, miss?” said a voice; “your order, please, though I think it’s full.”

Here was a fresh complication.  Beatrice had no order.  She had no idea that one was necessary.

“I haven’t got an order,” she said faintly.  “I did not know that I must have one.  Can I not get in without?”

“Most certainly not, miss,” answered the voice, while its owner, suspecting dynamite, surveyed her with a cold official eye.  “Now make way, make way, please.”

Beatrice’s grey eyes filled with tears, as she turned to go in bitterness of heart.  So all her labour was in vain, and that which would be done must be done without the mute farewell she sought.  Well, when sorrow was so much, what mattered a little more?  She turned to go, but not unobserved.  A certain rather youthful Member of Parliament, with an eye for beauty in distress, had been standing close to her, talking to a constituent.  The constituent had departed to wherever constituents go—­and many representatives, if asked, would cheerfully point out a locality suitable to the genus, at least in their judgment—­and the member had overheard the conversation and seen Beatrice’s eyes fill with tears.  “What a lovely woman!” he had said to himself, and then did what he should have done, namely, lifted his hat and inquired if, as a member of the House, he could be of any service to her.  Beatrice listened, and explained that she was particularly anxious to get into the Ladies’ Gallery.

“I think that I can help you, then,” he said.  “As it happens a lady, for whom I got an order, has telegraphed to say that she cannot come.  Will you follow me?  Might I ask you to give me your name?”