"The Chief of Staff! Of course. Dear me, how old he's grown. Polly Fortescue of course! Where's that damned waiter?"
The carpenter touched the Colonel's sleeve. "Look, sir, those two men in silver."
"Bah!" the old soldier snorted with rage. "Queen's Blackguards. Bah! In fancy dress, the bounders! This so-called Chivalrie Renaissance among the idle rich is a piece of damned disgusting snobbery. Ugh!"
"The young 'un is the Duke of Lancaster. The tall lean chap is the Chancellor's son, the Marquess of Sydney—rare good at the wicket, sir."
The Colonel scowled sideways at the passing Guardsmen.
"I hate this foppery—ought to be whipped."
"We may need them," the carpenter turned grave, "may need them badly, sir—may need every man we have in the Empire. Have you heard, sir, that Brand is provisioning the country for a siege?"
"Pooh! Old invasion scare again—young man, I was brought up to that."
"I'm afraid, sir, it's something worse than invasion. There's a rumour that unless the Government drops this Russian Alliance, Brand's going to read them a lesson."
"Don't talk to me about Brand, a beastly common tradesman—ought to be locked up. Bah!"