And now something that almost verged on an animated discussion ensued as to what was and what was not the real province of diplomacy; a majority inclining to the opinion that it was derogatory to the high dignity of the calling to meddle with what, at best, was the function of the mere courtier.
“Is that Culduff driving away in that cab?” cried one, as he stood at the window.
“He has carried away my hat, I see, by mistake,” said another. “What is he up to at this hour of the morning?”
“I think I can guess,” said the grim individual who had corrected him in the matter of genealogy; “he's off to F. O. to ask for the special mission he has just declared that none of us should stoop to accept.”
“You 've hit it, Grindesley,” cried another. “I 'll wager a pony you 're right.”
“It's so like him.”
“After all, it's the sort of thing he's best up to. La Ferronaye told me he was the best master of the ceremonies in Europe.”
“Why come amongst us at all, then? Why not get himself made a gold-stick, and follow the instincts of his genius?”
“Well, I believe he wants it badly,” said one who affected a tone of half kindliness. “They tell me he has not eight hundred a year left him.”
“Not four. I doubt if he could lay claim to three.”