“Lunch is no good,” said Edward.
“Why not?”
“Evening papers go to press in the morning.”
“Do they indeed?” said the Prime Minister, with the first lively glance he had delivered since the beginning of this terrible debacle. “That’s really worth knowing! I never knew that.” He gazed into space, then suddenly waking up he said: “Why then, Edward, there’s no time to lose! Go and see them at once. Go and see them yourself, Edward.”
“It isn’t much good,” said Edward. “I know one of them, and the other’s dotty.”
“Never mind,” said the Prime Minister, “never mind. Do it somehow. Kill ’em if you must,” he added jocosely, and his secretary went.
The Premier left his secretary’s room and mournfully approached his breakfast.
Upon his table a time-honoured device constructed of brass and wood was designed to hold the newspaper while the tenant of that historic house might be at meals. Upon this was propped up, open at the leading page, a copy of the Times. The leaders were discreet. He found no word from beginning to end, save a little note in small type to the effect that Sir Charles Repton would be unable to speak at the great Wycliffite Congress, he was confined to the house with influenza; a similar note he was assured had appeared in all the eleven newspapers upon the official list, and through them would be distributed to the provincial press; the only thing left to the discretion of their editorial departments being the disease from which the distinguished patient might be suffering, which appeared in one as phlebitis, in another as tracheotomy, and in a third as a severe cold.
Of Demaine not a word.
Dolly thanked Heaven for the discipline which makes the Press of London the most powerful instrument of Government in the world.