As they stood together they went over the speech to which they had been listening, and the scene which had followed it, in a running stream of talk, laughter, and gossip.
Wharton took little part, except to make a joke occasionally at his own expense, but the pleasure on his smiling lip, and in his roving, contented eye was not to be mistaken.

The speech he had just delivered had been first thought out as he paced the moonlit library and corridor at Mellor.

After Marcella had left him, and he was once more in his own room, he had had the extraordinary self-control to write it out, and make two or three machine-copies of it for the press.

Neither its range nor its logical order had suffered for that intervening experience.

The programme of labour for the next five years had never been better presented, more boldly planned, more eloquently justified.