Sir Bartholomew was wearing a canary-coloured waistcoat with mother-of-pearl buttons.
It seemed to Gorman that the expanse of yellow broadened as luncheon went on. Perhaps it actually did. Perhaps an atmosphere of illusion was created by the port which followed an excellent bottle of sauterne. Yellow is a cheerful colour, and Sir Bartholomew’s waistcoat increased the vague feeling of hopeful well-being which the luncheon produced.
“Affairs in the Near East,” said Sir Bartholomew, “are at present in a critical position.”
“Always are, aren’t they?” said Gorman. “Some affairs are like that, Irish affairs for instance.”
Sir Bartholomew frowned slightly. He hated levity. Then the good wine triumphing over the dignity of the bureaucrat, he smiled again.
“You Irishmen!” he said. “No subject is serious for you. That is your great charm. But I assure you, Mr. Gorman, that we are at this moment passing through a crisis.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help you—” said Gorman. “A crisis is nothing to me. I have lived all my life in the middle of one. That’s the worst of Ireland. Crisis is her normal condition.”
“I think——” Sir Bartholomew lowered his voice although there was no one in the room to overhear him. “I think, Mr. Gorman, that you are acquainted with the present King of Megalia.”
“If you mean Konrad Karl,” said Gorman, “I should call him the late king. They had a revolution there, you know, and hunted him out, I believe Megalia is a republic now.”
“None of the Great Powers,” said Sir Bartholomew, “has ever recognised the Republic of Megalia.”