Mitchener (pepperily, rising).  Obey your orders instantly, Sir, and dont presume to argue.  Even if she kills you, it is your duty to die for your country.  Right about face.  March. (The Orderly goes out, trembling.)

The voice outside.  Votes for Women!  Votes for Women!  Votes for Women!

Mitchener (mimicking her).  Votes for Women!  Votes for Women!  Votes for Women! (in his natural voice) Votes for children!  Votes for babies!  Votes for monkeys! (He posts himself on the hearthrug, and awaits the enemy.)

The orderly (outside).  In you go. (He pushes a panting Suffraget into the room.) The person sir. (He withdraws.)

The Suffraget takes off her tailor made skirt and reveals a pair of fashionable trousers.

Mitchener (horrified).  Stop, madam.  What are you doing?  You must not undress in my presence.  I protest.  Not even your letter from the Prime Minister—­

The suffraget.  My dear Mitchener:  I am the Prime Minister. (He tears off his hat and cloak; throws them on the desk; and confronts the General in the ordinary costume of a Cabinet minister.)

Mitchener.  Good heavens!  Balsquith!

Balsquith (throwing himself into Mitchener’s chair).  Yes:  it is indeed Balsquith.  It has come to this:  that the only way that the Prime Minister of England can get from Downing Street to the War Office is by assuming this disguise; shrieking “Votes for Women”; and chaining himself to your doorscraper.  They were at the corner in force.  They cheered me.  Bellachristina herself was there.  She shook my hand and told me to say I was a vegetarian, as the diet was better in Holloway for vegetarians.

Mitchener.  Why didnt you telephone?

Balsquith.  They tap the telephone.  Every switchboard in London is in their hands or in those of their young men.

Mitchener.  Where on Earth did you get that dress?

Balsquith.  I stole it from a little Exhibition got up by my wife in Downing Street.

Mitchener.  You dont mean to say its a French dress?

Balsquith.  Great Heavens, no.  My wife isnt allowed even to put on her gloves with French chalk.  Everything labelled Made in Camberwell.  She advised me to come to you.  And what I have to say must be said here to you personally, in the most intimate confidence, with the most urgent persuasion.  Mitchener:  Sandstone has resigned.

Mitchener (amazed).  Old Red resigned!

Balsquith.  Resigned.

Mitchener.  But how?  Why?  Oh, impossible! the proclamation of martial law last Tuesday made Sandstone virtually Dictator in the metropolis, and to resign now is flat desertion.

Balsquith.  Yes, yes, my dear Mitchener; I know all that as well as you do:  I argued with him until I was black in the face and he so red about the neck that if I had gone on he would have burst.  He is furious because we have abandoned his plan.