"Speech!" shrieked Andrew Barrett.
"Speech!" shrieked twelve hundred and thirty-eight intelligent New-Yorkers and seven bankers.
"There's Bishop Phillipson!" shrilled a correctly gowned elderly lady, pointing a jeweled lorgnette at the Bishop of New York. It meant the Church approved.
"Hooray for the Bishop! Bishop! Bishop!"
"Vox populi, vox Dei," murmured the Bishop to himself.
"Say something, my child," he gently urged Grace. "After all, we may dislike the way it is done, but if the hungry are fed we may be forgiven."
Grace Goodchild burned with desire to make a wonderful speech to prove that her greatness was her very own. They wanted her, not H. R., this time! It was her triumph, not his.
Alas! She did not know what to say. She did not even know how to say it. She therefore shook her head angrily.
"Speech!" shouted the crowd, twice as vehemently as before. They always want to hear what you don't wish to say.
The cameras were clicking away madly. They sounded like the telegraph-room of a national convention.