“I was going to tell you, Henny,” said Aubrey, “the dope is that the President's going to leave the conference, going to call them all damn blackguards to their faces and walk out, with the band playing the 'Internationale.'” “God, that's news,” cried Andrews. “If he does that he'll recognize the Soviets,” said Henslowe. “Me for the first Red Cross Mission that goes to save starving Russia.... Gee, that's great. I'll write you a postal from Moscow, Andy, if they haven't been abolished as delusions of the bourgeoisie.” “Hell, no.... I've got five hundred dollars' worth of Russian bonds that girl Vera gave me.... But worth five million, ten million, fifty million if the Czar gets back.... I'm backing the little white father,” cried Heineman. “Anyway Moki says he's alive; that Savaroffs got him locked up in a suite in the Ritz.... And Moki knows.” “Moki knows a damn lot, I'll admit that,” said Henslowe. “But just think of it,” said Aubrey, “that means world revolution with the United States at the head of it. What do you think of that?” “Moki doesn't think so,” said Heineman. “And Moki knows.” “She just knows what a lot of reactionary warlords tell her,” said Aubrey. “This man I was talking with at the Crillon--I wish I could tell you his name--heard it directly from...Well, you know who.” He turned to Henslowe, who smiled knowingly. “There's a mission in Russia at this minute making peace with Lenin.” “A goddam outrage!” cried Heineman, knocking a bottle off the table. The lanky man picked up the pieces patiently, without comment. “The new era is opening, men, I swear it is...” began Aubrey. “The old order is dissolving. It is going down under a weight of misery and crime.... This will be the first great gesture towards a newer and better world. There is no alternative. The chance will never come back. It is either for us to step courageously forward, or sink into unbelievable horrors of anarchy and civil war.... Peace or the dark ages again.” Andrews had felt for some time an uncontrollable sleepiness coming over him. He rolled himself on a rug and stretched out on the empty couch. The voices arguing, wrangling, enunciating emphatic phrases, dinned for a minute in his ears. He went to sleep. When Andrews woke up he found himself staring at the cracked plaster of an unfamiliar ceiling. For some moments he could not guess where he was. Henslowe was sleeping, wrapped in another rug, on the couch beside him. Except for Henslowe's breathing, there was complete silence. Floods of silvery-grey light poured in through the wide windows, behind which Andrews could see a sky full of bright dove-colored clouds. He sat up carefully. Some time in the night he must have taken off his tunic and boots and puttees, which were on the floor beside the couch. The tables with the bottles had gone and the lanky man was nowhere to be seen.