"The quickest way to get from Charing Cross to Hammersmith Broadway," he said, "is to go by Underground."
"Men have died in Hammersmith Broadway," replied the Grand Duke suavely.
The Prince gritted his teeth. He was no match for his slippery adversary in a diplomatic dialogue, and he knew it.
"The sun rises in the East," he cried, half-choking, "but it sets—it sets!"
"So does a hen," was the cynical reply.
The last remnants of the Prince's self-control were slipping away. This elusive, diplomatic conversation is a terrible strain if one is not in the mood for it. Its proper setting is the gay, glittering ball-room at some frivolous court. To a man who has just got the bird at a music-hall, and who is trying to induce another man to confess that the thing was his doing, it is little short of maddening.
"Hen!" he echoed, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Have you studied the habits of hens?"
The truth seemed very near to him now, but the master-diplomat before him was used to extracting himself from awkward corners.
"Pullets with a southern exposure," he drawled, "have yellow legs and ripen quickest."
The Prince was nonplussed. He had no answer.