“The fact is, my dear fellow,” said Lionel, who sat down near Sinclair, “we had, before the storm, arrived at the cross-roads, and had to choose which turning we should take. Were we to go straight ahead, regardless of past traditions, on a motor car; or should we have chosen a shady road and ambled back to Canterbury on a Chaucerian cob, escorting that gentle dame yclept “Madam Eglantine”? The twentieth century was the sphinx confronting us. Were we going to meet it with an old adage, or were we at last to be Œdipus and solve the question?” “As long as we dragged at our heels the worthless baggage of the past, we could not proceed on our road.” Danford stood in front of the two men. “We went to our political business in fairy coaches, and could not make out why we arrived too late for Parliamentary tit-bits. We were playing the fool on the brink of a precipice, and spent our time and energy in staging a sort of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ in a graveyard. It was as tragic as it was flippant, and if posterity will laugh at our inconsistency, how much more must Mediævalism grin at our lack of adaptability. I should like to know what King Alfred or Queen Bess have to say about us?” “Poor Alfred,” sighed Lionel, “I feel for him, for he must be mortified at having given the first impulse to English language to produce—Marian Crivelli!” “Ha! ha! ha! As to dear old Bess,” remarked Sinclair; “with all her cunning, and the improbity of her politics, she was essentially modern—of her times modernity, naturally, for of course, Conservatism and Radicalism are relative. Had she seen the development of science; had she crossed the Channel in one hour, and the Atlantic in a week; and had she been able to send a wireless message to a distant continent, she would have jumped with delight!—she would have twigged in an instant that the curtain had dropped upon the old world, and she would have advised her successor to throw unscrupulously overboard, crown, sceptre, regal goods and chattels—in fact, all royal overweight—to save the crew!” “That reminds me,” suddenly said Lionel, “that I had a telephonic _causerie_ this morning with Victor de Laumel, in Paris. He said that at the clubs everyone was discussing the latest. The Sovereigns of Europe are going to meet in congress at the Hague to confabulate on what they had better do in face of this strange event in England.” “When the Sovereigns themselves are aware of the inconsistency of their condition, and the futility of their prerogatives, then their eyes will be open as to what their future conduct has to be.” “That is just what Victor says. They are as excited about this congress, in Paris, as they were about Fashoda and Dreyfus, and, naturally, they blame us for it; all the smart clubs are dead nuts against England for playing into the hands of Jove.”