"I wonder was the Premier there," one man asked, wiping the traces of merriment from his glasses, "I've laughed till I'm sore—but I'm afraid he wouldn't see the same fun in it as I do":
"Well, if he's sport enough to laugh at this, I'll say he's some man," said another.
"That girl sure has her nerve—there isn't a man in this city would dare do it."
"She'll get his goat—if he ever hears her—I'd advise the old man to stay away."
"That's holding a mirror up to public life all right."
"But who is she?"
"The government will be well advised to pension that girl and get her out of the country—a few more sessions of the Women's Parliament, and the government can quit."
He hurried out into the brilliantly lighted street, stung by the laughter and idle words. His heart was bursting with rage, blind, bitter choking. He had been laughed at, ridiculed, insulted—and the men, whom he had made—had sat by applauding.
John Graham had, all his life, dominated his family circle, his friends, his party, and for the last five years had ruled the Province. Success, applause, wealth, had come easily to him, and he had taken them as naturally as he accepted the breath of his nostrils. They were his. But on this bright night in May, as he went angrily down the back street, unconsciously striking the pavement with his cane, with angry blows, the echo of the people's laughter in his ears was bitter as the pains of death.