We Were Plainly Dressed, And Did Not
Attract Observation As We Joined The Outside Circle Of One Of These
Groups After Another.
It was as interesting to watch the listeners
as the speakers.
I wished I might paint the sea of faces, eager,
anxious, stolid, attentive, happy, and unhappy: histories written
on many of them; others blank, unmarked by any thought or
aspiration. I stole a sidelong look at the Honourable Arthur. He
is an Englishman first, and a man afterwards (I prefer it the other
way), but he does not realise it; he thinks he is just like all
other good fellows, although he is mistaken. He and Willie
Beresford speak the same language, but they are as different as
Malay and Eskimo. He is an extreme type, but he is very likeable
and very well worth looking at, with his long coat, his silk hat,
and the white Malmaison in his buttonhole. He is always so
radiantly, fascinatingly clean, the Honourable Arthur, simple,
frank, direct, sensible, and he bores me almost to tears.
The first orator was edifying his hearers with an explanation of the
drama of The Corsican Brothers, and his eloquence, unlike that of
the other speakers, was largely inspired by the hope of pennies. It
was a novel idea, and his interpretation was rendered very amusing
to us by the wholly original Yorkshire accent which he gave to the
French personages and places in the play.
An Irishman in black clerical garb held the next group together.
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