“I find I shall not be able to stay very much longer. When I go, will you return with me or stay here?” “Just as you like,” I answered. “Either place is as acceptable to me.” “That means you will stay,” Vestasian declared. “I take it as a compliment.” And he led the way to where he had been sitting. Vestné rose as we approached. “You may take my place,” she said graciously. “I must see my husband. I don’t believe he’s had any supper, and he’s come _such_ a long way.” So we sat down, and she went to him, and as long as I was in the room they remained together and seemed more than usually content in each other’s society. But to return to the man upon the stage. Whilst Vestasian spoke to me he had been sitting waiting there. “What is his name?” I asked. “We never disclose names,” Vestasian answered. “They all go by numbers. It is less complicated in the long run.” “And less complimentary too,” I added. “Well, so it may be. But then we never pay compliments; they are too broad.” Then he addressed himself to the man. “Would you be kind enough to defend your own policy?” he said. “He never had a policy,” cried someone in the audience. “He must have had a policy,” shouted someone else. “Not at all. He belongs to that class of animal called ‘Mammal.’” “Well, what has that to do with it?” “Everything. He has no backbone.” “Hs-sch. If you’re not careful he will round on you. You’re betraying ignorance.” “No matter. I said it out of kindness to give him an opening. But he’s missed it.” “What is his policy?” “The destruction of fleas.” “Are they not an Irish importation?” “Oh, no. Lace and poplins come from there. It is a revival.” “What of? Potatoes?” “Ask him.” “He doesn’t know. He was a Foreign Secretary.” “But Ireland belongs to that section.” “Your dates are wrong. This is a hundred years ago.” “Why, that’s the time when it was united!” “Certainly. Ask him.” “Ask him what?” “If he’s gone to sleep or lost his tongue.” “He has done neither.” “What ails him then?” “He cannot speak.” “Why?” “There’s no gallery.” “But he is ambitious.” “What has that to do with it?” “He can ascend to the roof.” “What of his head?” “He hasn’t got one.” “Yes, he has.” “Indeed not.” “Prove it.” “His brains are in a glass case in the British Museum, labelled ‘Obsolete.’” “What is his policy?” “The extermination of fleas.” “He’s a humbug.” “That’s a dangerous kind of flea.” “Is he a War Advocate?” “It just depends.” “Upon what?” “How he feels.” “Has he exterminated anything?” “He says he has.” “What is that?” “Himself.” “Did he put himself out?” “He did his best.” “And failed?” “Oh, no—succeeded.” “He’s a clever man.” “Ask him to sing the National Anthem.” “Which one?” “The English, to be sure. There is no other nation.” “But he’s an Im—Im—Im—imperialist. Ho—there, waiter! Whisky—Soda—Rum—Gin—and pure beer.” “Why do you need it?” “To drink the toast.” “No more?”