It was a magnificent thought, one of those inspirations which reveal latent genius.  The hall echoed with shouts of glorification.  Adela, who sat with her mother and Letty (Mrs. Westlake had not accompanied her husband), kept her eyes fixed on the ground; the uproar made her head throb.

All seemed to be over and dispersal was beginning, when a gentleman stood up in the middle of the hall and made signs that he wished to be heard for a moment.  Mutimer aided him in gaining attention.  It was Mr. Yottle, a grizzle-headed, ruddy-cheeked veteran of the law.

’I merely desire to use this opportunity of reminding those who have been employed at the works that Mr. Eldon will be glad to meet them in this hall at half-past ten o’clock to-morrow morning.  It will perhaps be better if the men alone attend, as the meeting will be strictly for business purposes.’

Adela was among the last to leave the room.  As she was moving between the rows of benches Mr. Westlake approached her.  He had only arrived in time to take his place on the platform, and he was on the point of returning to London.

I have a note for you from Stella, he said.  ’She has been ailing for a fortnight; it wasn’t safe for her to come.  But she will soon see you, I hope.’

‘I hope so,’ Adela replied mechanically, as she took the letter.

Mr. Westlake only added his ‘good-bye,’ and went to take leave of Mutimer, who was standing at a little distance.

Among those who remained to talk with the hero of the day was our old friend Keene.  Keene had risen in the world, being at present sub-editor of a Belwick journal.  His appearance had considerably improved, and his manner was more ornate than ever.  He took Mutimer by the arm and led him aside.

’A suggestion—­something that occurred to me whilst you were speaking.  You must write the history of New Wanley Not too long; a thing that could be printed in pamphlet form and sold at a penny or twopence.  Speak to Westlake see if the Union won’t publish.  Some simple title:  “My Work in New Wanley,” for instance.  I’ll see that it’s well noticed in our rag.’

‘Not a bad idea!’ Mutimer exclaimed, throwing back his head.

’Trust me, not half bad.  Be of use in the propaganda.  Just think it over, and, if you care to, allow me to read it in manuscript.  There’s a kind of art—­eh? you know what I mean; it’s only to be got by journalistic practice.  Yes, “My Work in New Wanley”; I think that would do.’

‘I’m going to lecture at Commonwealth Hall next Sunday,’ Mutimer observed.  ‘I’ll take that for my title.’

’By-the-bye how—­what was I going to say?  Oh yes, how is Mrs. Rodman?’

‘Tolerable, I believe.’

‘In London, presumably?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not much—­not taking it to heart much, I hope?’

‘Not particularly?  I think.’

’I should be glad to be remembered—­a word when you see her.  Thanks, Mutimer, thanks.  I must be off.’