guest of the Russian Embassy; after that he came to Lord Stranleigh, removed the decorations of his rank, and then the pair, who were old friends, intended to have a good time together like any other young men about town.
Stranleigh was giving final instructions regarding the preparation of the suite of rooms for Prince Azov's occupation when the usually imperturbable Ponderby came in, betraying a state of agitation which filled his master with astonishment. Ponderby's stout figure seemed to have shrunk. His erstwhile rubicund countenance was actually pale, and his face wore a crestfallen expression almost akin to terror that was not without its touch of comicality. Indeed, Stranleigh almost smiled, and, in fact, would have smiled, had the victim been a man of less consequence than his indispensable valet. But instead of smiling, he spoke very calmly.
"Well, Ponderby, what's the trouble?"
"It's the Suffragettes, my lord. They demand to see your lordship, and won't believe you're not at home. There's about twenty of them, my lord."
"A mere mistake in identity, Ponderby. Tell them the address of the Premier is No. 10, Downing Street. Turn them away firmly, but kindly."
