The clock pointed to eight.  Punctually to the moment a side door was thrown open, and a procession of gentlemen ascended the platform.  Members of the committee seated themselves in a row of arm-chairs; Mr. William Glazzard took his place not far from the reading-desk, and behind it subsided the lecturer.

In these instants Denzil Quarrier was the prey of sudden panic.  He had imagined that his fortitude was proof against stage-fright, but between the door and his seat on the platform he suffered horribly.  His throat was parched and constricted; his eyes dazzled, so that he could see nothing; his limbs were mere automatic mechanism; he felt as though some one had set his ears on fire.  He strove wildly to recollect his opening sentences; but they were gone.  How was he to fill up a mortal hour with coherent talk when he had not command of one phrase?  He had often reproved himself for temerity, and now the weakness had brought its punishment.  What possessed him to run into such a——?

The chairman had risen and was speaking.  “Pleasure——­introduce ——­Mr. Denzil Quarrier,——­not unknown to many of you——­ almost at a moment’s notice——­much indebted——­”

An outbreak of applause, and then dead silence.  The ticking of the clock became audible.  Some external force took hold upon him, lifted him from the chair, and impelled him a few steps forward.  Some voice, decidedly not his own, though it appeared to issue from his throat, uttered the words “Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen.”  And before the sound had ceased, there flashed into his thoughts a story concerning an enlightened young lady of Stockholm, who gave a lecture to advance the theory that woman’s intellect suffered from the habit of allowing her hair to grow so long.  It was years since this trifle had recurred to his mind; it came he knew not how, and he clutched at it like the drowning man at a straw.  Before he really understood what he was about, he had begun to narrate the anecdote, and suddenly, to his astonishment, he was rewarded with universal peals of laughter.  The noise dispelled his anguish of nervousness; he drew a deep breath, grasped the table before him, and was able to speak as freely as if he had been on his own hearth-rug in Clement’s Inn.

Make a popular audience laugh, and you have a hold upon its attention.  Able now to distinguish the faces that were gazing at him, Denzil perceived that he had begun with a lucky stroke; the people were in expectation of more merriment, and sat beaming with good-humour.  He saw the Mayor spread himself and stroke his beard, and the Mayoress simper as she caught a friend’s eye.  Now he might venture to change his tone and become serious.