Iro belonged to Schonerer’s party.  The word-of-honour incident has given it a new name.  Gregorig is a Christian Socialist, and hero of the post-cards and the Wimberger soda-squirting incident.  He stands vast and conspicuous, and conceited and self-satisfied, and roosterish and inconsequential, at Lueger’s elbow, and is proud and cocky to be in such a great company.  He looks very well indeed; really majestic, and aware of it.  He crows out his little empty remark, now and then, and looks as pleased as if he had been delivered of the Ausgleich.  Indeed, he does look notably fine.  He wears almost the only dress vest on the floor; it exposes a continental spread of white shirt-front; his hands are posed at ease in the lips of his trousers pockets; his head is tilted back complacently; he is attitudinising; he is playing to the gallery.  However, they are all doing that.  It is curious to see.  Men who only vote, and can’t make speeches, and don’t know how to invent witty ejaculations, wander about the vacated parts of the floor, and stop in a good place and strike attitudes—­attitudes suggestive of weighty thought, mostly—­and glance furtively up at the galleries to see how it works; or a couple will come together and shake hands in an artificial way, and laugh a gay manufactured laugh, and do some constrained and self-conscious attitudinising; and they steal glances at the galleries to see if they are getting notice.  It is like a scene on the stage—­by-play by minor actors at the back while the stars do the great work at the front.  Even Count Badeni attitudinises for a moment; strikes a reflective Napoleonic attitude of fine picturesqueness—­but soon thinks better of it and desists.  There are two who do not attitudinise—­poor harried and insulted President Abrahamowicz, who seems wholly miserable, and can find no way to put in the dreary time but by swinging his bell and discharging occasional remarks which nobody can hear; and a resigned and patient priest, who sits lonely in a great vacancy on Majority territory and munches an apple.

Schonerer uplifts his fog-horn of a voice and shakes the roof with an insult discharged at the Majority.

Dr. Lueger.  ‘The Honourless Party would better keep still here!’

Gregorig (the echo, swelling out his shirt-front).  ’Yes, keep quiet, pimp!’

Schonerer (to Lueger).  ‘Political mountebank!’

Prochazka (to Schonerer).  ‘Drunken clown!’

During the final hour of the sitting many happy phrases were distributed through the proceedings.  Among them were these—­and they are strikingly good ones: 

‘Blatherskite!’

‘Blackguard!’

‘Scoundrel!’

‘Brothel-daddy!’

This last was the contribution of Dr. Gessman, and gave great satisfaction.  And deservedly.  It seems to me that it was one of the most sparkling things that was said during the whole evening.

At half-past two in the morning the House adjourned.  The victory was with the Opposition.  No; not quite that.  The effective part of it was snatched away from them by an unlawful exercise of Presidential force —­another contribution toward driving the mistreated Minority out of their minds.