"Jack O'Brien," she said to the last, "you and I will share the foot of the table."
Mr. O'Brien, President of the United Trades Unions, whose presence was resented by the rest, sat down at the humblest place in obvious triumph.
"But surely, Mistress Brand," he said, "where's the master?"
"My lords and gentlemen," said Sarah Brand, "my brother asks for no place at the table of the Imperial Council. He will wait upon you afterwards. Bishop, will you say grace?"
A murmur of astonishment went round the table, and the Ministers, doubtful until then, lest they be lifting a Dictator to the throne, saw clearly that the master did them honour. So was the absence of the host—late for dinner—construed not as an insult to his guests, but as the greatest compliment he could pay them.
The Ministers had been in council all day long, now they talked anything but politics, nor, after our Lady's health was drunk, would they consent to the absence of Mistress Brand.
"We have, indeed, no business left to discuss," said the Bishop, cheerfully. "Everything is settled."
"There's only one thing you've all forgotten," answered the hostess, smoothing her turbulent red hair, as she glanced from face to face. "You left out Ulster."
"My dear Miss Brand," said Clydesdale, "we've laid that ghost."
"He's not dead yet,"—the woman's eyes were kindling. "John never supposed he would dare to defy Lyonesse, or make himself Dictator, or depose the poor little Queen. You don't know what a man you're dealing with. Do you suppose he'll sit down meekly now?"