He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. For a time Spurlock did not move. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. “Tell me his name,” he said, “and I promise that he shall never trouble you. Was it VERY horrible? I tried to get into the police-court, but the crowd was ever so much too big, push as I would. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. Her disapproval was obvious enough.
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