Somewhere before midnight the division on the second reading was taken, amid all those accompaniments of crowd, expectation, and commotion, that are usually evoked by the critical points of a contested measure. The majority for Government was forty-four—less by twenty-four votes than its normal figure.
As the cheers and counter-cheers subsided, George found himself borne into the Lobby with the crowd pouring out of the House. As he approached the door leading to the outer lobby, a lady in front of him turned. George received a lightning impression of beauty, of a kind of anxious joy, and recognised Marcella Maxwell.
She held out her hand.
"Well, the first stage is over!" she said.
"Yes, and well over," he said, smiling. "But you have shed a great many men already."
"Oh! I know—I know. The next few weeks will be intolerable; one will feel sure of nobody." Then her voice changed—took a certain shyness. "A good many people from here are coming down to us at Mile End during the next few weeks—will you come some time, and bring Lady Tressady?"
"Thank you," said George, rather formally. "It is very kind of you."
Then, in another voice: "And you are really none the worse?"
His eyes sought the injured temple, and she instinctively put up her hand to the black wave of hair that had been drawn forward so as to conceal the mark.
"Oh no! That boy was not an expert, luckily. How absurd the papers have been!"
George shook his head.