“Certainly. What can I do? If this lady will kindly tell me, I shall be happy to do it. I have already expressed my deep regret that the accident should have occurred.”
The lady gathered her train over her arm.
“I accept the apology of ‘King Charles,’” she said, her vexation already subdued. “It is not worth while quarrelling about.”
The clock struck twelve as she spoke, and as the last chime died away, the order was given to unmask. The two men fronted each other, and simultaneously uncovered their faces. Montella almost involuntarily gave a start, for the countenance of his opponent was curiously and unpleasantly familiar. He had seen it pictured in all the illustrated journals in the kingdom, cartooned in Punch, caricatured elsewhere; he had seen it scowling at the Opposition in the House, and at the anxious journalists in the Lobby. It was most unfortunate that this regrettable circumstance should be connected with his first personal introduction to the man.
There was a moment’s silence, during which the young politician’s eyes fell like an abashed schoolboy. The “Cromwell” was the first to speak.
“Your name?” he demanded curtly.
“Selim Montella.”
“Montella? member for Thorpe Burstall?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! Mine is—as you may know—Athelstan Moore.”