“Then,” said Penfentenyou, “I called at the office at ten o'clock.” “But they'd be in bed,” I cried. “One of the babies was awake. He told me that--that 'my sort of questions'”--he slapped the pile of cables--“were only taken between 11 and 2 P.M. So I waited.” “And when you got to business?” I asked. He made a gesture of despair. “It was like talking to children. They'd never heard of it.” “And your Opposite Number?” Penfentenyou described him. “Hush! You mustn't talk like that!” I shuddered. “He's one of the best of good fellows. You should meet him socially.” “I've done that too,” he said. “Have you?” “Heaven forbid!” I cried; “but that's the proper thing to say.” “Oh, he said all the proper things. Only I thought as this was England that they'd more or less have the hang of all the--general hang-together of my Idea. But I had to explain it from the beginning.” “Ah! They'd probably mislaid the papers,” I said, and I told him the story of a three-million pound insurrection caused by a deputy Under-Secretary sitting upon a mass of green-labelled correspondence instead of reading it. “I wonder it doesn't happen every week,” he answered. “D'you mind my having the Agent-General to dinner again tonight? I'll wire, and he can motor down.” The Agent-General arrived two hours later, a patient and expostulating person, visibly torn between the pulling Devil of a rampant Colony, and the placid Baker of a largely uninterested England. But with Penfentenyou behind him he had worked; for he told us that Lord Lundie--the Law Lord was--the final authority on the legal and constitutional aspects of the Great Idea, and to him it must be referred. “Good Heavens alive!” thundered Penfentenyou. “I told you to get that settled last Christmas.” “It was the middle of the house-party season,” said the Agent-General mildly. “Lord Lundie's at Credence Green now--he spends his holidays there. It's only forty miles off.” “Shan't I disturb his Holiness?” said Penfentenyou heavily. “Perhaps 'my sort of questions,”' he snorted, “mayn't be discussed except at midnight.” “Oh, don't be a child,” I said. “What this country needs,” said Penfentenyou, “is--” and for ten minutes he trumpeted rebellion. “What you need is to pay for your own protection,” I cut in when he drew breath, and I showed him a yellowish paper, supplied gratis by Government, which is called Schedule D. To my merciless delight he had never seen the thing before, and I completed my victory over him and all the Colonies with a Brassey's “Naval Annual” and a “Statesman's Year Book.” The Agent-General interposed with agent-generalities (but they were merely provocateurs) about Ties of Sentiment. “They be blowed!” said Penfentenyou. “What's the good of sentiment towards a Kindergarten?” “Quite so. Ties of common funk are the things that bind us together; and the sooner you new nations realize it the better. What you need is an annual invasion. Then you'd grow up.”