The King stepped out on to the pavement of Lower Grosvenor Place.
The door, operated by a spring, closed silently behind him.
Lower Grosvenor Place, normally a quiet and deserted thoroughfare was, tonight, for once, thronged with people. A cheering, singing rollicking crowd, the backwash of the larger crowds, which had been attracted to the palace, and to the display of fireworks in the parks, had taken possession of the roadway. For a moment, the noise of the crowd, and the lights of the street, coming so abruptly after the silence, and the secluded darkness of the garden, disconcerted the King. Next moment, smiling a little at the thought of his own bizarre position, he darted into the crowd, and began to work his way across the road.
Inevitably jostled, and pushed, by the crowd, he made slow progress.
Suddenly, his progress was arrested altogether.
A little company of West End revellers, half a dozen youthful dandies from the clubs, and as many daringly dressed women, who were moving down the centre of the road, with their arms linked, singing at the top of their voices, deliberately intercepted him, and circling swiftly round him, held him prisoner.
"Where are your colours, old man?" one of the women demanded, in an affected, provocative drawl. She was young, and, in spite of her artificial complexion, and dyed eyebrows, she still retained a suggestion of prettiness, and even of freshness. "Here! This is what you want!"
As she spoke, she caught hold of the lapel of the King's coat, and pinned to it a large rosette of red, white, and blue ribbons.
"There! That looks better," she declared. "You don't want people to think you're one of these Communist cads, and in favour of a revolution, do you?"
The King laughed merrily.