Seddon's  Hall,  the  place  of  my  first  meeting,  was  jammed
that  Saturday  night.  I  went  through  my  speech  auto-
matically, as  in  a  dream,  the  habit  of  long  years  asserting
itself.  And  yet  —  so  I  was  told  afterwards  —  my  delivery
was  not  mechanical,  and  I  actually  achieved  more  emphasis,
gave  a  greater  impression  of  conviction  than  at  any  time


A  FAR  COUNTRY  471

since  the  night  I  had  lost  my  control  and  violently  de-
nounced the  reformers.  By  some  astonishing  subconscious
process  I  had  regained  my  manner,  but  the  applause  came
to  me  as  from  a  distance.  Not  only  was  my  mind  not
there;  it  did  not  seem  to  be  anywhere.  I  was  dazed,  nor  did
I  feel — save  once— a  fleeting  sxirge  of  contempt  for  the  mob
below  me  with  their  silly  faces  uptm-ned  to  mine.  There
may  have  been  intelligent  expressions  among  them,  but
they  failed  to  catch  my  eye.
I  remember  being  stopped  by  Grierson  as  I  was  going  out
of  the  side  entrance.  He  took  my  hand  and  squeezed  it,
and  there  was  on  his  face  an  odd,  surprised  look.
"That  was. the  best  yet,  Hugh,"  he  said.
I  went  on  past  him.  Looking  back  on  that  evening  now,
it  would  almost  seem  as  though  the  volition  of  another
possessed  me,  not  my  own:  seemingly,  I  had  every  inten-
tion of  going  on  to  the  National  Theatre,  in  which  Parks
had  just  spoken,  and  as  I  descended  the  narrow  stairway
and  emerged  on  the  side  street  I  caught  sight  of  my  chauffeur
awaiting  me  by  the  curb.
"I'm  not  going  to  that  other  meeting,"  I  found  myself
saying.     "  I'm  pretty  tired."

"Shall  I  drive  you  back  to  the  Club,  sir?"  he  inquired.
