"You can't come up 'ere unless you've got business in the 'otel," states the porter unmoved.
"So I 'ave got bisness 'ere," declares the other. "Bisness c'nected with my son's b'loon."
"An' we don't leave 'ere till it's settled, neither," cries the lady on the pavement. "'Alf-a-crown that balloon cost, an' we don't budge from 'ere till we get it."
This is altogether too much for the owner of the Rolls-Royce.
"'Alf-a-crown?" he explodes and turns indignantly to the company. "'Alf-a-crown for a child's balloon, and then they go on strike."
Derisive cheers and counter-cheers go up from the crowd below as the incensed balloon-owner bursts forth into an impassioned defence of his inalienable right as a free-born Briton to strike or to buy half-crown balloons as the spirit moves him. Simultaneously the lady in the diamonds rises and, producing a coin from her gold bag, holds it with a superb gesture at arm's length beneath his nose. For a moment or two he pays no attention to her, then takes the coin impatiently with the air of one brushing aside an irritating interruption and continues his harangue.
"Come on," puts in the porter; "you've got yer 'alf-crown. S'pose you move on."
"Got me 'alf-crown, 'ave I'?" he retorts. "Wot about my rights as a man? Does 'alf-a-crown buy them?"
No one venturing to solve this social problem he turns slowly and, glaring over his shoulder at Rolls-Royce, descends the steps.
"I'm an Englishman, I am," he concludes from the pavement. "No one can't close my mouth with 'alf-crowns."