champagne for the party. At a long table near the back were the British Legation in full force.
“Envoy, you can’t wear a false nose.”
“I don’t at all see why not. I think it’s very amusing.”
“I don’t think that you ought really to be here at all.”
“Why? M. Ballon is.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t look as if he were enjoying himself.”
“I say, shall I send him one of those chain letters?”
“Yes, I don’t see why you shouldn’t do that.’
“It will puzzle him terribly.”
“Envoy, who’s that young man? I’m sure he’s English.”
Basil had gone across to Connolly’s table.
“Hullo, old boy. Take a pew. This is Black Bitch.”
“How do you do.” The little negress put down her trumpet, bowed with grave dignity and held out her hand. “Not Black Bitch any more. Duchess of Ukaka now.”
“My word, hasn’t she got an ugly mug,” said the Duke. “But she’s a good little thing.”
Black Bitch flashed a great, white grin of pleasure at the compliment. It was a glorious night for her; it would have been rapture enough to have her man back from the wars; but to be made a Duchess and taken to supper among all the white ladies… all in the same day….
“You see,” said M. Ballon to his first secretary, “That is the man, over there with Connolly. You are having him watched?”
“Ceaselessly.”
“You have instructed the waiter to attend carefully to the conversation at the English table?”
“He reported to me just now in the cloak-room. It is impossible to understand. Sir Samson speaks all the time of the dimensions of the Great Pyramid.”
“A trap, doubtless.”
The Emperor had signified his intention of making an appearance some time during the evening. At the end of the ball-room a box had been improvised for him with bunting, pots of palm, and gilt cardboard. Soon after midnight he came. At a sign from Prince Fyodor the band stopped in the middle of the tune and struck up the national anthem. The dancing couples scuttled to the side of the ball-room; the guests at supper rose awkwardly to their feet, pushing their tables forward with a rattle of knives and glasses; there was a furtive self-conscious straightening of ties and removing of paper caps. Sir Samson Courteney alone absentmindedly re-cained his false nose. The royal entourage in frogged uniforms advanced down the polished floor; in their centre, half a pace ahead, looking neither to right nor left, strode the Emperor in evening dress, white kid gloves, heavily starched linen, neat pearl studs and jet-black face.
“Got up just as though he were going to sing Spirituals at a party,” said Lady Courteney.
Prince Fyodor glided in front and ushered him to his table. He sat down alone. The suite ranged themselves behind his chair. He gave a slight nod to Prince Fyodor. The band resumed the dance music. The Emperor watched impassively as the company began to settle down to a state of enjoyment.
Presently by means of an agency, he invited the wife of the American minister to dance with him. The other couples fell back. With gravity and grace he led Mrs. Schonbaum into the centre, danced with her twice round the room, led her back to her table, bowed and returned to his box.
“Why, he dances beautifully,” reported Mrs. Schonbaum. “I often wonder what they would say back home to see me dancing with a man of colour.”
“I do pray he comes and dances with Mum,’
‘ said Prudence. “Do you think it’s any use me trying to vamp him, or does he only go for wives?”
The evening went on.
The maitre d’hotel approached Prince Fyodor in tome distress.
“Highness, they are complaining about the champagne.’
“Who are?”
“The French Legation.’
“Tell them we will make a special price for them.”
“… Highness, more complaints of the champagne.”
“Who this time?”
“The Duke of Ukaka.”
“Take away the bottle, pour in a tumbler of brandy and bring it back.”
“… Highness, is it proper to serve the Minister of the Interior with more wine? He is pouring it in his lady’s lap.”
“It is proper. You ask questions like an idiot.’
The English party began to play consequences on the menu cards. They were of the simplest sort: The amorous Duke of Ukaka met the intoxicated
