“Not until after I have had the pleasure of the third waltz, I hope,” said the Ambassador.
“How annoying! I wanted so much to dance it with you.”
“And you will not?” he asked in great concern.
“Dare I plunge two nations into war for the sake of a waltz?”
“Had you my inducement you would not hesitate,” he replied gallantly.
“What, to precipitate hostilities! What have we done? What is your great inducement to fight?”
“Not to fight—to dance,” said Sir Richard with a little less than his usual assurance.
“For a diplomatist you are indeed explicit. While you are in so good a mood, tell me what has happened; is there danger?”
“Danger? No—how could there be?” He selected a formula: “Between traditionally friendly powers arbitration settles all disputes.”
“You realise,” she said earnestly and with an entire change of manner, “that we have to consider the political situation here? A strong despatch improves the position of the Government.”
“I have felt all through,” said the Ambassador uncompromisingly, “that there was no danger.” He did not however mention that H.M. battleship Aggressor (12,000 tons displacement and 14,000 horsepower, armed with four 11-inch guns) was steaming eighteen knots an hour towards the African port of the Lauranian Republic, or that he himself had been busy all the afternoon with cipher telegrams relating to ships, stores, and military movements. He thought that would be only boring her with purely technical details.
While this conversation had been taking place, the stream of people had passed continuously up the stairs, and the throng on the wide balcony that ran round the entire hall had become dense. The wonderful band was almost drowned by the hum of conversation; the perfect floor of the ballroom was only occupied by a few young couples whose own affairs absorbed their minds and excluded all other interests. A feeling of expectancy pervaded the hall; the rumour that Savrola would come had spread far and wide throughout Laurania.
Suddenly everyone became hushed, and above the strains of the band the distant sound of shouting was heard. Louder and louder it swelled, swiftly approaching until it was at the very gate; then it died away, and there was a silence through the hall filled only by the music. Had he been hooted or cheered? The sound had seemed strangely ambiguous; men were prepared to wager about it; his face would tell them the answer.
The swing-doors opened and Savrola entered. All eyes were turned on him, but his face showed them nothing, and the bets remained undecided. As he leisurely ascended the stairs, his eye travelled with interest round the crowded galleries and the brilliant throng who lined them. No decorations, no orders, no star relieved the plain evening dress he wore. Amid that blaze of colour, that multitude of gorgeous uniforms, he appeared a sombre figure; but, like the Iron Duke in Paris, he looked the leader of them all, calm, confident, and composed.
The President walked down a few steps to meet his distinguished guest. Both bowed with grave dignity.
“I am glad you have come, Sir,” said Molara; “it is in harmony with the traditions of the State.”
“Duty and inclination combined to point the way,” answered Savrola with a smile marked by a suggestion of irony.
“You had no difficulty with the crowd?” suggested the President acidly.
“Oh, no difficulty, but they take politics a little seriously; they disapproved of my coming to your palace.”
“You are right to come,” said Molara. “Now we who are engaged in matters of State know what these things are worth; men of the world do not get excited over public affairs, nor do gentlemen fight with bludgeons.”
“I prefer swords,” said Savrola reflectively. He had reached the head of the stairs and Lucile stood before him. What a queen she looked, how peerless and incomparable among all women! The fine tiara she wore suggested sovereignty, and democrat as he was, he bowed to that alone. She held out her hand; he took it with reverence and courtesy, but the contact thrilled him.
The President selected a fat but famous woman from the aristocracy of Laurania, and led the way into the ballroom. Savrola did not dance; there were some amusements which his philosophy taught him to despise. Lucile was captured by the Russian Ambassador, and he remained a spectator.
Lieutenant Tiro saw him thus alone and approached him, wishing to finish their discussion about the “back” of the polo team, which had been interrupted the week before. Savrola received him with a smile; he liked the young soldier, as indeed did everyone. Tiro was full of arguments; he was in favour of a strong heavy player who should lie back in the game and take no chances. Savrola, having remarked on the importance of the Lauranian Army being properly represented in an international contest, favoured a light weight, playing right up to his forwards and ready to take the ball on himself at any moment. It was an animated discussion.
“Where have you played?” asked the Subaltern, surprised at his knowledge.
“I have never played the game,” answered Savrola; “but I have always thought it a good training for military officers.”
The subject was changed.
“Explain to me,” said the great Democrat, “what all these different orders are. What is that blue one that Sir Richard, the British Ambassador, is wearing?”
“That is the Garter,” replied the Subaltern; “the most honourable order in England.”
“Really, and what is this that you are wearing?”
“I! Oh, that’s the African medal. I was out there in ’86 and ’87, you know.” As Savrola had anticipated, he was intensely pleased at being asked.
“It must have been a strange experience for you, who are so young.”
“It was damned good fun,” said the Subaltern with decision. “I was at Langi Tal. My squadron had a five-mile pursuit. The lance is a beautiful weapon. The English in India have a sport called pig-sticking; I have never tried it, but I know a better.”
“Well, you may have another chance
