"It's no use, Dale," said I, "I've got my marching orders."

"But why should they come just now?"

"When the sweets of office are dangling at my lips? It's pretty simple."
I laughed. "It's one of the little ironies that please the high gods
so immensely. They have an elementary sense of humour--like that of
the funny fellow who pulls your chair from under you and shrieks with
laughter when you go wallop on to the floor. Well, I don't grudge them
their amusement. They must have a dull time settling mundane affairs,
and a little joke goes a long way with them, as it does in the House
of Commons. Fancy sitting on those green benches legislating for all
eternity, with never a recess and never even a dinner hour! Poor high
gods! Let us pity them."

I looked at him and smiled, perhaps a little wearily. One can always
command one's eyes, but one's lips sometimes get out of control. He
could not have noticed my lips, however, for he cried:

"By George, you're splendid! I wish I could take a knock-out blow like
that!"

"You'll have to one of these days. It's the only way of taking it. And
now," said I, in a businesslike tone, "I've told you all this with a
purpose. At Wymington it will be a case of 'Le Roi est mort. Vive le
Roi!' The vacancy will have to be filled up at once. We'll have to find
a suitable candidate. Have you one in your mind?"

"Not a soul."