“He’ll be here,” answered Mr. Glazzard, laconically.  “Liversedge, a word with you.”

The two stepped apart and conversed under cover of the chat that went on in front of the fire.  Mr. Glazzard merely wished for a few hints to direct him when he introduced the lecturer; he was silent about his brother’s frustrated project.

Fresh members of the committee kept appearing.  The room resounded with talk and laughter.  Denzil had a higher colour than usual, but he seemed perfectly self-possessed; his appearance and colloquial abilities made a very favourable impression.  “Distinct improvement on friend Toby,” whispered one committee-man to another; and this was the general opinion.  Yet there was some anxiety regarding the address they were about to hear.  Denzil did not look like a man who would mince his words and go half-way in his opinions.  The Woman question was rather a dangerous one in Polterham just now; that period of Revivalism, and the subsequent campaign of Mrs. Hitchin, had left a sore feeling in not a few of the townsfolk.  An old gentleman (he had known Denzil as a boy) ventured to speak of this to the lecturer.

“Don’t be afraid, Mr. Toft,” was the laughing reply.  “You will stand amazed at my moderation; I am dead against Female Suffrage.”

“That is safe, I think.  You’ll find Mrs. Wade down upon you—­but that doesn’t matter.”

“Will she attack me in the hall?”

“No, no; we don’t have public discussion; but prepare for an assault to-morrow.”

“I shall enjoy it!”

The hall was rapidly filling.  Already twice as many people as attended an ordinary lecture had taken seats, and among them were numerous faces altogether strange at the Institute, though familiar enough in the streets of Polterham.  Among early arrivals was Mr. Samuel Quarrier, Denzil’s uncle, a white-headed but stalwart figure.  He abominated Radicalism, and was one of the very few “new” men who supported the old political dynasty of the town.  But his countenance manifested no sour displeasure; he exchanged cheery greetings on all hands, and marched steadily to the front chairs, his two daughters following.  The Mayor, accompanied by his wife, Miss Mumbray, and young Mr. Raglan Mumbray, was seen moving forward; he acknowledged salutations with a heavy bow and a wave of the hand.  Decidedly it was a field-day.  From the street below sounded a constant roll of carriages and clatter of hoofs coming to a standstill before the Institute.  Never, perhaps, had so many people in evening costume gathered under this roof.  Even Mr. Chown, the draper, though scornful of such fopperies, had thought it due to his position as a town-councillor to don the invidious garb; he was not disposed to herd among the undistinguished at the back of the room.  Ladies were in great force, though many of them sought places with an abashed movement, not quite sure whether what they were about to hear would be strictly “proper.”  One there was who betrayed no such tremors; the position she assumed was about the middle of the hall, and from time to time curious looks were cast in that direction.