At last Paul’s opportunity arrived.  The Whips had given him his chance to speak.  His luck attended him, in so far that when his turn came he found a full House.  It was on a matter of no vital importance; but he had prepared his speech carefully.  He stood up for the first time in that strangely nerve-shaking assembly in which he had been received so coldly and in which he was still friendless, and saw the beginning of the familiar exodus into the lobbies.  A sudden wave of anger swept through him and he tore the notes of his speech across and across, and again he metaphorically kicked Billy Goodge.  He plunged into his speech, forgetful of what he had written, with a passion queerly hyperbolic in view of the subject.  At the arresting tones of his voice many of the withdrawing members stopped at the bar and listened, then as he proceeded they gradually slipped back into their places.  Curiosity gave place to interest.  Paul had found his gift again, and his anger soon lost itself completely in the joy of the artist.  The House is always generous to performance.  There was something novel in the spectacle of this young man, who had come there under a cloud, standing like a fearless young Hermes before them, in the ring of his beautiful voice, in the instinctive picturesqueness of phrase, in the winning charm of his personality.  It was but a little point in a Government Bill that he had to deal with, and he dealt with it shortly.  But he dealt with it in an unexpected, dramatic way, and he sat down amid comforting applause and circumambient smiles and nods.  The old government hand who rose to reply complimented him gracefully and proceeded of course to tear his argument to tatters.  Then an ill-conditioned Socialist Member got up, and, blundering and unconscious agent of Destiny in a fast-emptying House, began a personal attack on Paul.  Whereupon there were cries of “Shame!” and “Sit down!” and the Speaker, in caustic tones, counselled relevancy, and the sympathy of the House went out to the Fortunate Youth; so that when he went soon afterwards into the outer lobby—­it was the dinner hour—­he found himself surrounded by encouraging friends.  He did not wait long among them, for up in the Ladies’ Gallery was his Princess.  He tore up the stairs and met her outside.  Her face was pale with anger.

“The brute!” she whispered.  “The cowardly brute!”

He snapped his fingers.  “Canaille, canaille!  He counts for nothing.  But I’ve got them!” he cried exultingly, holding out clenched fists.  “By God, darling, I’ve got them!  They’ll listen to me now!”

She looked at him and the sudden tears came.  “Thank God,” she said, “I can hear you talk like that at last.”

He escorted her down the stone stairs and through the lobby to her car, and they were objects of many admiring eyes.  When they reached it she said, with a humorous curl of the lip, “Veux-tu m’epouser maintenant?”

“Wait, only wait,” said he.  “These are only fireworks.  Very soon we’ll get to the real thing.”