“Mrs. Everston,” answered Beatrice, taking the first that came into her head.  The member looked a little disappointed.  He had vaguely hoped that this lovely creature was unappropriated.  Surely her marriage could not be satisfactory, or she would not look so sad.

Then came more stairs and passages, and formalities, till presently Beatrice found herself in a kind of bird-cage, crowded to suffocation with every sort of lady.

“I’m afraid—­I am very much afraid——­” began her new-found friend, surveying the mass with dismay.

But at that moment, a stout lady in front feeling faint with the heat, was forced to leave the Gallery, and almost before she knew where she was, Beatrice was installed in her place.  Her friend had bowed and vanished, and she was left to all purposes alone, for she never heeded those about her, though some of them looked at her hard enough, wondering at her form and beauty, and who she might be.

She cast her eye down over the crowded House, and saw a vision of hats, collars, and legs, and heard a tumult of sounds:  the sharp voice of a speaker who was rapidly losing his temper, the plaudits of the Government benches, the interruptions from the Opposition—­yes, even yells, and hoots, and noises, that reminded her remotely of the crowing of cocks.  Possibly had she thought of it, Beatrice would not have been greatly impressed with the dignity of an assembly, at the doors of which so many of its members seemed to leave their manners, with their overcoats and sticks; it might even have suggested the idea of a bear garden to her mind.  But she simply did not think about it.  She searched the House keenly enough, but it was to find one face, and one only—­Ah! there he was.

And now the House of Commons might vanish into the bottomless abyss, and take with it the House of Lords, and what remained of the British Constitution, and she would never miss them.  For, at the best of times, Beatrice—­in common with most of her sex—­in all gratitude be it said, was not an ardent politician.

There Geoffrey sat, his arms folded—­the hat pushed slightly from his forehead, so that she could see his face.  There was her own beloved, whom she had come so far to see, and whom to-morrow she would dare so much to save.  How sad he looked—­he did not seem to be paying much attention to what was going on.  She knew well enough that he was thinking of her; she could feel it in her head as she had often felt it before.  But she dared not let her mind go out to him in answer, for, if once she did so, she knew also that he would discover her.  So she sat, and fed her eyes upon his face, taking her farewell of it, while round her, and beneath her, the hum of the House went on, as ever present and as unnoticed as the hum of bees upon a summer noon.