One fine Sunday in May she came up to town to lunch with him alone, Godfrey being away somewhere or other for the week-end.
“My dear,” he cried, excitedly, as soon as she arrived, “I’ve been dying to see you. It’s going to happen.”
“What?”
She smiled into his eager face. There was nothing so extravagant that it could not happen to Baltazar.
“There’s talk of a new Ministry—a Ministry of Propaganda.”
“Well?”
“Can’t you guess?”
Her eyes glistened suddenly.
“You—Minister?”