A horrible thought crossed Austen’s mind—­perhaps they were not his violets after all!  Because she had smiled at him, yesterday and to-day, he had soared heavenwards on wings of his own making.  Perhaps they were Mr. Crewe’s violets.  Had she not come to visit Mr. Crewe, to listen to his piece de resistance, without knowing that he, Austen Vane, would be in the capital?  The idea that her interest in Austen Vane was possibly connected with the study of mankind had a sobering effect on him; and the notion that she had another sort of interest in Mr. Crewe seemed ridiculous enough, but disturbing, and supported by feats.

Austen had reached this phase in his reflections when he was aroused by a metallic sound which arose above the resonant tones of the orator of the day.  A certain vessel, to the use of which, according to Mr. Dickens, the satire male portion of the American nation was at one time addicted,—­a cuspidor, in plain language,—­had been started, by some unknown agency in the back seats, rolling down the centre aisle, and gathering impetus as it went, bumped the louder on each successive step until it hurled itself with a clash against the clerk’s desk, at the feet of the orator himself.  During its descent a titter arose which gradually swelled into a roar of laughter, and Austen’s attention was once more focused upon the member from Leith.  But if any man had so misjudged the quality of Humphrey Crewe as to suppose for an instant that he could be put out of countenance by such a manoeuvre, that man was mightily mistaken.  Mr. Crewe paused, with his forefinger on the page, and fixed a glassy eye on the remote neighbourhood in the back seats where the disturbance had started.

“I am much obliged to the gentleman,” he said coldly, “but he has sent me an article which I never use, under any conditions.  I would not deprive him of its convenience.”

Whereupon, it is not too much to say, Mr. Crews was accorded an ovation, led by his stanch friend and admirer, the Honourable Jacob Botcher, although that worthy had been known to use the article in question.

Mr. Speaker Doby glanced at the faithful clock, and arose majestically.

“I regret to say,” he announced, “that the time of the gentleman from Leith is up.”

Mr. Botcher rose slowly to his feet.

“Mr. Speaker,” he began, in a voice that rumbled through the crevices of the gallery, “I move you, sir, that a vote of thanks be accorded to the gentleman from Leith for his exceedingly able and instructive speech on national affairs.”

“Second the motion,” said the Honourable Brush Bascom, instantly.

“And leave to print in the State Tribune!” cried a voice from somewhere among the submerged four hundred and seventy.

“Gentlemen of the House,” said Mr. Crewe, when the laughter had subsided, “I have given you a speech which is the result of much thought and preparation on my part.  I have not flaunted the star-spangled banner in your faces, or indulged in oratorical fireworks.  Mine have been the words of a plain business man, and I have not indulged in wild accusations or flights of imagination.  Perhaps, if I had,” he added, “there are some who would have been better pleased.  I thank my friends for their kind attention and approbation.”