“In view of the extraordinary propaganda— ”

They were making too much noise.

“Mr. Speaker— ”

A disgusting feeling of nausea, a kind of vapourish tightness behind his nose.

“Mr. Speaker— ”

He looked up again. A mistake. The sea of faces jerked up and revolved very quickly. A tiny voice, somewhere up in the attic, was calling: “He’s fainted.”

He did not feel himself pitch forward across the desk. Nor did he hear a voice from the back benches that called out: “You’ll be worse than that before you’ve finished with your bloody Bill.”

“Who’s his doctor — anyone know?”

“Yes — I do. It’s bound to be Sir John Phillips— they’re old friends.”

“Phillips? He runs that nursing-home in Brook Street, doesn’t he?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Somebody must ring Lady O’Callaghan.”

“I will if you like. I know her.”

“Is he coming round?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Tillotley went to see about the ambulance.”

“Here he is. Did you fix up for an ambulance, Tillotley?”

“It’s coming. Where are you sending him?”

“Cuthbert’s gone to ring up his wife.”

“God, he looks bad!”

“Did you hear that fellow yell out from the back benches?”

“Yes. Who was it?”

“I don’t know. I say, do you think there’s anything fishy about this?”

“Oh, rot!”

“Here’s Dr. Wendover — I didn’t know he was in the House.”

They stood back from O’Callaghan. A little tubby man, Communist member for a North Country constituency, came through the group of men and knelt down.

“Open those windows, will you?” he said. He loosened O’Callaghan’s clothes. The others eyed him respectfully. After a minute or two he looked round.

“Who’s his medical man?” he asked. “Cuthbert thinks it’s Sir John Phillips. He’s ringing his wife now.”