As the scene discloses itself you get, so to speak, one of John Shand’s posters in the face.  Vote for Shand.  Shand, Shand, Shand.  Civil and Religious Liberty, Faith, Hope, Freedom.  They are all fly-blown names for Shand.  Have a placard about Shand, have a hundred placards about him, it is snowing Shand to-night in Glasgow; take the paste out of your eye, and you will see that we are in one of Shand’s committee rooms.  It has been a hairdresser’s emporium, but Shand, Shand, Shand has swept through it like a wind, leaving nothing but the fixtures; why shave, why have your head doused in those basins when you can be brushed and scraped and washed up for ever by simply voting for Shand?

There are a few hard chairs for yelling Shand from, and then rushing away.  There is an iron spiral staircase that once led to the ladies’ hairdressing apartments, but now leads to more Shand, Shand, Shand.  A glass door at the back opens on to the shop proper, screaming Civil and Religious Liberty, Shand, as it opens, and beyond is the street crammed with still more Shand pro and con.  Men in every sort of garb rush in and out, up and down the stair, shouting the magic word.  Then there is a lull, and down the stair comes Maggie Wylie, decidedly overdressed in blue velvet and (let us get this over) less good-looking than ever.  She raises her hands to heaven, she spins round like a little teetotum.  To her from the street, suffering from a determination of the word Shand to the mouth, rush Alick and David.  Alick is thinner (being older), David is stouter (being older), and they are both in tweeds and silk hats.]

Maggie.  David—­have they—­is he? quick, quick!  David.  There’s no news yet, no news.  It’s terrible.

[The teetotum revolves more quickly.]

Alick.  For God’s sake, Maggie, sit down.

Maggie.  I can’t, I can’t.

David.  Hold her down.

[They press her into a chair; James darts in, stouter also.  His necktie has gone; he will never again be able to attend a funeral in that hat.]

James [wildly].  John Shand’s the man for you.  John Shand’s the man for you.  John Shand’s the man for you.

David [clutching him].  Have you heard anything?

James.  Not a word.

Alick.  Look at her.

David.  Maggie [he goes on his knees beside her, pressing her to him in affectionate anxiety].  It was mad of him to dare.

Maggie.  It was grand of him.

Alick [moving about distraught].  Insane ambition.

Maggie.  Glorious ambition.

David.  Maggie, Maggie, my lamb, best be prepared for the worst.

Maggie [husky].  I am prepared.

Alick.  Six weary years has she waited for this night.

Maggie.  Six brave years has John toiled for this night.