The evening passed, apparently in the most friendly and peaceful fashion, and no one suddenly introduced into the reception-room would have dreamt that the members of Lord Orrel's dinner-party were not on the very best of terms with themselves and each other. Not even Adelaide or Sophie, sitting there with their revolvers in the pockets of their dinner dresses, and thoughts of murder in their souls, had the remotest idea of how terribly it was destined to end.
Miss Chrysie had sung "The Old Folks at Home," and Adelaide one of the old chansons which had delighted the Grand Monarque in the Trianon. Then Sophie sat down at the piano, and the slow solemn strains of the Russian National Hymn wailed up in majestic chords from the instrument. There was something of defiance both in her touch and in her voice, but international courtesies were respected, and everyone in the room stood up. For Sophie Valdemar it was her swan-song—since she was never to sing another—and she sang it splendidly, with her whole soul in it. As the last line, "Give to us peace in our time, O Lord," left her lips, Lord Orrel went to her side, and said:
"Thank you, countess. A splendid hymn splendidly sung!" And then he turned to the French and Russian admirals, and said: "Gentlemen, is it not possible for you to answer, as you could answer, that prayer for peace? I can assure you, on my word of honour as an English gentleman, that this building in which you are now is impregnable to all forms of attack known to modern warfare. At a distance of five thousand miles we have paralysed the fleets and armies of Europe. Your ships are less than five miles from our walls: you are not courting defeat, you are courting annihilation. Can you not leave us in peace?"
"I was under the impression, milord," said Admiral Nazanoff, "that that subject was closed for the present. We have yet to be convinced as to these terrible powers which you claim to possess: but our orders are real, so too are our ships and guns; and since you have refused the terms we have offered we have no alternative but to put these boasted powers of yours to the test of war. I regret it most exceedingly, as I am sure my colleague, Admiral Dumont, does also, but that must be our last word."
The French admiral and Victor Fargeau both bowed assent as he spoke. And Lord Orrel answered:
"Well, gentlemen, since you are resolved, so be it. We will not discuss the matter further."
While he was speaking Lady Olive had gone to the piano, and, as he ceased, the opening chords of "Auld Lang Syne," floated through the room, and she began to sing the old Scotch song. The words had a strangely satirical meaning for Count Valdemar and his daughter and Adelaide, who had heard them several times at Orrel Court, and Lady Olive put such expression into them that both Sophie and Adelaide felt inclined to be a little ashamed of themselves. Then in the midst of the song the clock began to chime twelve, and Lady Olive, with a frank look of defiance in her eyes, switched off suddenly into "God Save the King," and began to sing the opening lines. At the end of the first verse she stopped and rose from the piano, and said to her father, who had been looking a little uneasy, as though he thought it was hardly good taste:
"I am very sorry, papa, if I have offended, but really I could not help it; it seemed inevitable."
"And why not?" said Adelaide. "Was not the same song sung in honour of the Grand Monarque by the ladies of Versailles? Well, now, Lady Olive, I suppose it is good-night and good-bye. A thousand thanks for all your kindness and hospitality."
"And a thousand thanks from me, too," said Sophie.