He was a pitiful sight as he rose and confronted Augusta Goold.

There were blotches of purple red and spaces of pallor on his face; his hands twisted together; a sweat had broken out from his neck, and made his collar limp.

His words were a stammering mixture of bluster and appeal.
'You mustn't--mustn't--mustn't interrupt the meeting,' So far he tried to assert himself, then, with a glance at the contemptuous face of the woman before him, he relapsed into the tone of a schoolboy who begs off the last strokes of a caning.

'Is this nice conduct?
Is it ladylike to come here and attack us like this?
Miss Goold, I'm ashamed of you.' 'I am glad to hear,' said Augusta Goold, departing for the first time from her question, 'that there is anything left in the world that Mr.
O'Rourke is ashamed of.

I didn't think there was.' It was Mr.Shea and not his leader who resented this last insult.