The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. “The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. “Then assuredly!” said Manning. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. As he looked up at the massive tower, the clock tolled forth the hour of midnight. ‘Tee-ree-sa. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him.
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