Mitchener.  Not a word.

Balsquith (shaking his head).  I suppose nobody dared to tell you. 
(He sits down carelessly on Mitchener’s right.)

Mitchener.  What an infernal young fool Chubbs-Jenkinson is, not to know the standing of his man better!  Why didnt he know?  It was his business to know.  He ought to be flogged.

Balsquith.  Probably he will be, by the other subalterns.

Mitchener.  I hope so.  Anyhow, out he goes!  Out of the army!  He or
I.

Balsquith.  His father has subscribed a million to the party funds.  We owe him a peerage.

Mitchener.  I dont care.

Balsquith.  I do.  How do you think parties are kept up?  Not by the subscriptions of the local associations, I hope.  They dont pay for the gas at the meetings.

Mitchener.  Man; can you not be serious?  Here are we, face to face with Lady Richmond’s grave displeasure; and you talk to me about gas and subscriptions.  Her own nephew.

Balsquith (gloomily).  Its unfortunate.  He was at Oxford with Bobby Bassborough.

Mitchener.  Worse and worse.  What shall we do?

Balsquith shakes his head.  They contemplate one another in miserable silence.

A voice without.  Votes for Women!  Votes for Women!

A terrific explosion shakes the building—­they take no notice.

Mitchener (breaking down).  You dont know what this means to me,
Balsquith.  I love the army.  I love my country.

Balsquith.  It certainly is rather awkward.

The Orderly comes in.

Mitchener (angrily).  What is it?  How dare you interrupt us like this?

The orderly.  Didnt you hear the explosion, Sir?

Mitchener.  Explosion.  What explosion?  No:  I heard no explosion:  I have something more serious to attend to than explosions.  Great Heavens:  Lady Richmond’s nephew has been treated like any common laborer; and while England is reeling under the shock a private comes in and asks me if I heard an explosion.

Balsquith.  By the way, what was the explosion?

The orderly.  Only a sort of bombshell, Sir.

Balsquith.  Bombshell!

The orderly.  A pasteboard one, Sir.  Full of papers with Votes for
Women in red letters.  Fired into the yard from the roof of the
Alliance Office.

Mitchener.  Pooh!  Go away.  Go away.

The Orderly, bewildered, goes out.

Balsquith.  Mitchener:  you can save the country yet.  Put on your full-dress uniform and your medals and orders and so forth.  Get a guard of honor—­something showy—­horse guards or something of that sort; and call on the old girl—­

Mitchener.  The old girl?

Balsquith.  Well, Lady Richmond.  Apologize to her.  Ask her leave to accept the command.  Tell her that youve made the curate your adjutant or your aide-de-camp or whatever is the proper thing.  By the way, what can you make him?