"One has not served in the Prussian Guards for nothing. Once a soldier, always a soldier! Will the highly well-born Herr Legation-Councillor order Grams and Engelberg to hold this English pig-dog while I take His Excellency's medal out of the fellow's clothes?"
Snarled P. C. Breagh, livid with rage and glaring at the hostile faces like a young male tiger-cat:
"Add robbery to violence if you think well!—you are four to one—and in your own country. But as an English journalist I protest against the outrage.... And the British Ambassador shall take the matter up!"
There was an instant's pause of indecision, during which P. C. Breagh heard the opening of a door on the landing above. Then, with the rustle of silk, and the soft fall of footsteps traversing heavy carpets, a resonant voice called down the stair that led up between the basalt Sphinxes:
"Meanwhile, you will allow me to apologize for the too-excessive zeal of my servants. Do me the favor to come up here!"
The grip of the giant porter became flaccid as an infant's. The voice spoke again from the summit of the stair:
"Herr Legation-Councillor, will you kindly see Madame to her carriage? Au revoir, Madame, et bon voyage!"
A liquid voice responded:
"Au revoir, Monseigneur! At Paris—who knows!—before the Noël!"
She pulled down her veil, curtsied with demure elegance, and came softly rustling down in pale-hued, trailing silks and laces, one snow-white hand blazing with splendid emeralds lightly passing over the bronze baluster-rail, the other holding the ivory and jeweled stick of a dainty parasol.