be knowing what to say to these Chaps,” he repeated with a north-country quality in his speech.
We made reassuring noises.
The Ambassador of the Workers stirred his tea earnestly through an uncomfortable pause.
“I'd best tell 'em something of how things are in Lancashire, what with the new machines and all that,” he speculated at last with red reflections in his thoughtful eyes.
We had an inexcusable dread that perhaps he would make a mess of the meeting.
But when he was no longer in the unaccustomed meshes of refined conversation, but speaking with an audience before him, he became a different man. He declared he would explain to us just exactly what socialism was, and went on at once to an impassioned contrast of social conditions. “You young men,” he said “come from homes of luxury; every need you feel is supplied—”
We sat and stood and sprawled about him, occupying every inch of Redmayne's