“You will not fail?” Virginia sternly asked.
Angela touched the little flag and shook her head.
“Do not fear—I shall not fail!” She paused, bent close and whispered, “My chauffeur join our men, signorina—the Sergeant of the big guns, too. He swear to me the guns shall be ours!”
With a quick pressure of her hand Virginia hurried to enter the car of state which was already standing at the door.
The streets were thronged with thousands who talked in subdued tones. They had felt the iron hand on their throats too often during the past three years to abandon themselves to the occasion.
There were no screeching horns, no riotous boys and girls hurling confetti. Such crude expressions of liberty were forbidden.
Beneath the outer quiet slumbered the coming volcano.
Virginia drove to the Waldorf-Astoria, sent her card to a distinguished guest and was ushered into his parlors.
The dark foreigner with a Van Dyke beard bowed over her hand.
“Your Lordship had a pleasant trip across I trust?” she asked.