There was Professor Chadd, who invented the dancing Language.
As we entered, all the members seemed to sink suddenly into their chairs, and with the very action the vacancy of the presidential seat gaped at us like a missing tooth.
"The president's not here," said Mr P.G.Northover, turning suddenly to Professor Chadd.
"N--no," said the philosopher, with more than his ordinary vagueness.

"I can't imagine where he is." "Good heavens," said Mr Montmorency, jumping up, "I really feel a little nervous.

I'll go and see." And he ran out of the room.
An instant after he ran back again, twittering with a timid ecstasy.
"He's there, gentlemen--he's there all right--he's coming in now," he cried, and sat down.

Rupert and I could hardly help feeling the beginnings of a sort of wonder as to who this person might be who was the first member of this insane brotherhood.

Who, we thought indistinctly, could be maddest in this world of madmen: what fantastic was it whose shadow filled all these fantastics with so loyal an expectation?
Suddenly we were answered.