It is not true, though it is frequently said, that Sir Bartholomew retained the services of the chef of the Feodora Hotel when he took over the building for the use of his Ministry. It is well known that Sir Bartholomew--in his zeal for the public service--often lunched in his office and sometimes invited men whom he wanted to see on business, to lunch with him. They reported that the meals they ate were uncommonly good, as the meals of a Minister of State certainly ought to be. It was no doubt in this way that the slanderous story about the chef arose and gained currency. Gorman did not believe it, because he knew that the Feodora chef had gone to Beaufort’s Hotel when the other was taken over by the Government. But Gorman fully expected a good luncheon, nicely served in one of the five rooms set apart for Sir Bartholomew’s use in the hotel. He was not disappointed. The sole was all that anyone could ask. The salmi which followed it was good, and even the Feodora chef could not have sent up a better rum omelette. Sir Bartholomew was wearing a canary-coloured waistcoat with mother-of-pearl buttons. It seemed to Gorman that the expanse of yellow broadened as luncheon went on. Perhaps it actually did. Perhaps an atmosphere of illusion was created by the port which followed an excellent bottle of sauterne. Yellow is a cheerful colour, and Sir Bartholomew’s waistcoat increased the vague feeling of hopeful well-being which the luncheon produced. “Affairs in the Near East,” said Sir Bartholomew, “are at present in a critical position.” “Always are, aren’t they?” said Gorman. “Some affairs are like that, Irish affairs for instance.” Sir Bartholomew frowned slightly. He hated levity. Then the good wine triumphing over the dignity of the bureaucrat, he smiled again. “You Irishmen!” he said. “No subject is serious for you. That is your great charm. But I assure you, Mr. Gorman, that we are at this moment passing through a crisis.” “If there’s anything I can do to help you--” said Gorman. “A crisis is nothing to me. I have lived all my life in the middle of one. That’s the worst of Ireland. Crisis is her normal condition.” “I think----” Sir Bartholomew lowered his voice although there was no one in the room to overhear him. “I think, Mr. Gorman, that you are acquainted with the present King of Megalia.” “If you mean Konrad Karl,” said Gorman, “I should call him the late king. They had a revolution there, you know, and hunted him out, I believe Megalia is a republic _now_.” “None of the Great Powers,” said Sir Bartholomew, “has ever recognised the Republic of Megalia.” He spoke as if what he said disposed of the Megalians finally. The front of his yellow waistcoat expanded when he mentioned the Great Powers. This was only proper. A man who speaks with authority about Great Powers ought to swell a little. “The Megalian people,” he went on, “have hitherto preserved a strict neutrality.”