In spite of my dead and dazed state of being I was pleased to
see his saturnine black-bearded face, and to hear his big voice. He was
one of those men who always talked like a megaphone. The porticoes of
Victoria Station re-echoed with his salutations. I greeted him less
vociferously, but with equal cordiality.
"You're looking very fit. I head that you had gone through a miraculous
operation. How are you?"
"Perfectly well," said I, "but I've been told that I'm not quite alive
even yet."
He looked anxious. "Remains of trouble?"
"Not a vestige," I laughed.
"That's all right," he said breezily. "Now come along and hear Milligan
speak."
It did not occur to him that I might have work, worries, or engagements,
or that the evening's entertainment which he offered me might be the
last thing I should appreciate. His head, for the moment, was full
of Milligan, and it seemed to him only natural that the head of all
humanity should be full of Milligan too. I made a wry face.
"That son of thunder?"
Milligan was a demagogue who had twice unsuccessfully attempted to get
into Parliament in the Labour interest.
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