The Prime Minister groaned.
“What has he been shouting?” he breathed hoarsely.
“Oh just insults, nothing important, but the police have complained. And late last night he pointed out Betswick, who was a little buffy, stumbling down the pavement—sitting down, some say—. He shouted from his window to a lot of people in the street that it was Betswick. And now Betswick is afraid of going to open the Nurses’ Home this afternoon.... It’s a damned shame!” ended the secretary, exploding. “What the devil are you to do with a man ... it’s like—it’s like—it’s like an anarchist with little packets of dynamite.”
“Have you looked at the papers yet, Edward?” asked the Prime Minister.
“Some of ’em,” answered his secretary gloomily.
“Nothing in the Times?”
“Oh no,” said Edward, “nothing in any of the eleven London papers on the official list.”
“Do you think the others count?”
“Well,” answered the secretary thoughtfully, “there are the two evening papers that have been making such a fuss about the Concessions in Burmah.”
“Edward,” said the Prime Minister, “it’s a desperate remedy, but take the paper you have here, write out a note and get them to lunch. Not with me—with you. They’ll come.”