here was the blockade of Crete, and the British fleet lying off
Cape Matapan, waiting for instructions which might change the course of
European history. And there were those three unfortunate Macedonian
tourists, whose friends were momentarily expecting to receive their
ears or their fingers in default of the exorbitant ransom which had
been demanded. They must be plucked out of those mountains, by force
or by diplomacy, or an outraged public would vent its wrath upon
Downing Street. All these questions pressed for a solution, and yet
here was the Foreign Minister of England, planted in an arm-chair, with
his whole thoughts and attention riveted upon the ball of his right
toe! It was humiliating--horribly humiliating! His reason revolted at
it. He had been a respecter of himself, a respecter of his own will;
but what sort of a machine was it which could be utterly thrown out of
gear by a little piece of inflamed gristle? He groaned and writhed
among his cushions.

But, after all, was it quite impossible that he should go down to the
House? Perhaps the doctor was exaggerating the situation. There was a
Cabinet Council that day. He glanced at his watch. It must be nearly
over by now. But at least he might perhaps venture to drive down as
far as Westminster. He pushed back the little round table with its
bristle of medicine-bottles, and levering himself up with a hand upon
either arm of the chair, he clutched a thick oak stick and hobbled
slowly across the room. For a moment as he moved, his energy of mind
and body seemed to return to him. The British fleet should sail from
Matapan. Pressure should be brought to bear upon the Turks. The
Greeks should be shown--Ow! In an instant the Mediterranean was
blotted out, and nothing remained but that huge, undeniable, intrusive,
red-hot toe. He staggered to the window and rested his left hand upon
the ledge, while he propped himself upon his stick with his right.
Outside lay the bright, cool, square garden, a few well-dressed
passers-by, and a single, neatly-appointed carriage, which was driving
away from his own door. His quick eye caught the coat-of-arms on the
panel, and his lips set for a moment and his bushy eyebrows gathered
ominously with a deep furrow between them. He hobbled back to his seat
and struck the gong which stood upon the table.

"Your mistress!" said he as the serving-man entered.

It was clear that it was impossible to think of going to