"Oh, tell him I have nothing to communicate," cried his Lordship, hastily. "And, look here, don't bother me again with any inquiries from the Press." "Very well, your Lordship," the messenger answered, and at once withdrew. "Why not make an official declaration?" the Marquis urged. "It would avoid a great deal of unnecessary worry and anxiety." For a long time the Foreign Minister held out, until at length he became convinced by Lord Maybury's forcible arguments in favour of publicity, and gave his sanction to a statement being made in the House of Commons. Presently we all three proceeded there, and at once the news spread like wildfire, within Parliament and without, that the latest news from St Petersburg was to be officially announced. From the glass swing door of the Press gallery I watched the House rapidly fill to overflowing, even to its galleries, and when all had assembled the excitement for about ten minutes was intense. It was a memorable scene, more impressive, perhaps, than any of the many that have taken place within those sombre-panelled walls. Presently, prefaced by the Speaker's loud "Order-r-r! Order!" a slim, grey-haired figure rose from the Government bench and explained that the news contained in the _Novoe Vremya_ was entirely false, and assured the House that war had not been, and would not be, declared against England. The final sentences of this welcome announcement were lost in a terrific outburst of applause. So excited were some of the younger members that they tossed their hats high in the air like schoolboys, and the vociferous cheering of the Foreign Secretary was continued, loud and long, notwithstanding the Speaker's dignified and formal efforts to suppress it. The scene was the most enthusiastic and stirring that I had ever witnessed, but even this was eclipsed by the terrific enthusiasm I found prevailing among the multitude when, a quarter of an hour later, I fought my way though the throng to gaze outside.