Mr. Speaker Doby, who was apparently too thrilled and surprised to indulge in conversation with those on the bench beside him, and who made no attempt to quell hand-clapping and even occasional whistling; again, after the manner of experts, Mr. Crewe addressed himself forcibly to an individual in the audience, usually a sensitive and responsive person like the Honourable Jacob Botcher, who on such occasions assumed a look of infinite wisdom and nodded his head slowly.  There was no doubt about it that the compelling personality of Mr. Humphrey Crewe was creating a sensation.  Genius is sure of itself, and statesmen are born, not made.

Able and powerful as was Mr. Crewe’s discourse, the man and not the words had fastened the wandering attention of Austen Vane.  He did not perceive his friend of the evening before, Mr. Widgeon, coming towards him up the side aisle, until he felt a touch on the arm.

“Take my seat.  It ain’t exactly a front one,” whispered the member from Hull, “my wife’s cousin’s comin’ on the noon train.  Not a bad speech, is it?” he added.  “Acts like a veteran.  I didn’t callate he had it in him.”

Thus aroused, Austen made his way towards the vacant chair, and when he was seated raised his eyes to the gallery rail, and Mr. Crewe, the legislative chamber, and its audience ceased to exist.  It is quite impossible—­unless one is a poetical genius—­to reproduce on paper that gone and sickly sensation which is, paradoxically, so exquisite.  The psychological cause of it in this instance was, primarily, the sight, by Austen Vane, of his own violets on a black, tailor-made gown trimmed with wide braid, and secondarily of an oval face framed in a black hat, the subtle curves of which no living man could describe.  The face was turned in his direction, and he felt an additional thrill when he realized that she must have been watching him as he came in, for she was leaning forward with a gloved hand on the railing.

He performed that act of conventionality known as a bow, and she nodded her head—­black hat and all.  The real salutation was a divine ray which passed between their eyes—­hers and his—­over the commonplace mortals between.  And after that, although the patient legislative clock in the corner which had marked the space of other great events (such as the Woodchuck Session) continued to tick, undisturbed in this instance by the pole of the sergeant-at-arms, time became a lost dimension for Austen Vane.  He made a few unimportant discoveries such as the fact that Mrs. Pomfret and her daughter were seated beside Victoria, listening with a rapt attention; and that Mr. Crewe had begun to read statistics; and that some people were gaping and others leaving.  He could look up at the gallery without turning his head, and sometimes he caught her momentary glance, and again, with her chin in her hand, she was watching Mr. Crewe with a little smile creasing the corners of her eyes.