He is tall, meagre, bald; he wears a very broad black necktie, his hand saws up and down.

Mr.Cowes' tone is the quietly venomous; in a few minutes you believe in his indignation far more than in that of Mr.Cullen.He makes a point and pauses to observe the effect upon his hearers.

He prides himself upon his grammar, goes back to correct a concord, emphasises eccentricities of pronunciation; for instance, he accents 'capitalist' on the second syllable, and repeats the words with grave challenge to all and sundry.

Speaking of something which he wishes to stigmatise as a misnomer, he exclaims: 'It's what I call a misnomy!' And he follows the assertion with an awful suspense of utterance.

He brings his speech to a close exactly with the end of the tenth minute, and, on sitting down, eyes his unknown neighbour with wrathful intensity for several moments.
Who will follow?
A sound comes from the very back of the room, such a sound that every head turns in astonished search for the source of it.
Such voice has the wind in garret-chimneys on a winter night.