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There was a moment of silence, an awkward moment made even more embarrassing by Mrs. Langham’s bass sobbing. Then the elderly subdued man, who had clicked his tongue, fumbled in a pocket and produced a silver-mounted bottle of smelling salts which he hastened to offer to the distressed lady.

The man was Mr. Percival Langham, barrister and solicitor, and the bottle was the identical one which he had carried to public meetings ever since the desire for peace had urged him to accompany his wife to such functions. He had learned that smelling-salts were potent to avert slumber.

“My dear, my dear!” he murmured, proffering the bottle. “Pull yourself together.”

He looked up at Patricia reproachfully, yet the defiant girl thought she detected a glint of admiration in his eyes.

“You are unkind, Miss Weybourn,” was all he could force himself to say. “Rather unkind.”

At this moment, the chairman of the meeting, who had made his way unostentatiously into the midst of the No. 2 Committee, spoke placatingly.

“Pardon me, Miss Weybourn,” he said, addressing Patricia directly and smiling pleasantly, “I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before, but, of course, I have seen you, and Mrs. Warburton has often spoken of you.”

“How do you do?” Patricia replied formally, ta.k.ilng the proffered hand and smiling her sweetest smile.

“You must excuse my speaking to you without an introduction,” continued Mr. Warburton, seeming not to be aware of the look of baffled rage on Mrs. Langham’s raised face. “But formality must be waived for the moment. Observing your eagerness to help, I venture to think that you might care to assist my committee—if the No. 2 Committee cannot use you.”

Patricia hesitated.