of an extreme passage in an election campaign speech, to the occupant of the mayoral chair (who had thus failed to be transformed into a Lord Mayor).  The whole city had then, though the Mayor was not over-popular, rallied to its representative, and the Council had determined that the inauguration should be a purely municipal affair, a family party, proving to the august and to the world that the city was self-sufficing.  The episode was characteristic.

George heard a concert of laughter, which echoed across the room.  At the end of the main table Mr. Phirrips had become a centre of gaiety.  Mr. Phirrips, whom George and the clerk-of-the-works had had severe and constant difficulty in keeping reasonably near the narrow path of rectitude, was a merry, sharp, smart, middle-aged man with a skin that always looked as if he had just made use of an irritant soap.  He was one of the largest contractors in England, and his name on the hoarding of any building in course of erection seemed to give distinction to that building.  He was very rich, and popular in municipal circles, and especially with certain councillors, including a labour councillor.  George wondered whether Mr. Phirrips would make a speech.  No toast-list was visible in George’s vicinity.

To George the meal seemed to pass with astounding celerity.  The old bishop said grace in six words.  The Toast-master bawled for silence.  The health of all classes of society who could rely upon good doctors was proposed and heartily drunk—­princes, prelates, legislators, warriors, judges—­but the catalogue was cut short before any eccentric person could propose the health of the one-roomed poor, of whom the city was excessively prolific.  And then the Mayor addressed himself to the great business of the town hall.  George listened with throat dry; by way of precaution he had drunk nothing during the meal; and at each toast he had merely raised the glass to his lips and infinitesimally sipped; the coffee was bad and cold and left a taste in his mouth; but everything that he had eaten left a taste in his mouth.  The Mayor began:  “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,—­During the building of this—­er—­er—­structure....”  All his speech was in that manner and that key.  Nevertheless he was an able and strong individual, and as an old trade union leader could be fiercely eloquent with working-men.  He mentioned Alderman Soulter, and there was a tremendous cheer.  He did not mention Alderman Soulter again; a feud burned between these two.  After Alderman Soulter he mentioned finance.  He said that that was not the time to refer to finance, and then spoke of nothing else but finance throughout the remainder of his speech, until he came to the peroration—­“success and prosperity to our new town hall, the grandest civic monument which any city has erected to itself in this country within living memory, aye, and beyond.”  The frantic applause atoned for the lack of attention and the semi-audible chattering which had marred the