The dispatch was a long one, but it was necessary to give full explanation.
It was then six o’clock by Italian time, or five o’clock in England. The night express left Rome for Paris at twenty minutes after midnight, and it was his intention to catch it, providing he received a reply in time to have audience with His Majesty prior to leaving.
He dressed and afterwards dined at the Embassy, as was his habit. Lady Cathcart, with the hauteur of the Ambassador’s wife, sat at the head of the table, and several of the staff were present, also two Members of Parliament, men to whom ambassadors always have to be civil. But the meal proved a very dreary one. Both Members—who were quite unimportant persons, and who would never have appeared in “Who’s Who” had not their Constituents placed them there—aired their ideas upon the European situation—ideas which were ridiculous and unsound, though none present were so impolite as to say so.
“Have you sent your dispatch?” asked His Excellency the Ambassador when they were alone together for a few moments after dinner.
“Yes,” Waldron replied. “I am expecting permission, and if so I shall have audience at once.”
The Ambassador’s grey face lit up with a faint smile, as he shook his head.
“I fear, my dear Waldron, that you will not get permission. The Powers must look after their own perils.”
Hubert, glad enough to escape from the official atmosphere, left the Embassy shortly afterwards, and after killing time for an hour in the club—where he chatted with Colonel Sibileff, the Russian military attaché, and young Count Montoro, one of the jeunesse dorée of the Eternal City—walked back to his rooms to see if any reply was forthcoming from London. He had given orders to Sheppard, the concierge at the Embassy, to send round at once any telegram addressed to him.
“Any message?” he asked eagerly of Peters as he let himself in with his latch-key.
“Yes, sir, a telegram arrived from the Embassy only two minutes ago.”