"Rarely, I understand. Your powers of observation are keen, my dear
Prince."

There was a silence; then the Prince, momentarily baffled, returned to
the attack.

"The quickest way to get from Charing Cross to Hammersmith Broadway,"
he said, "is to go by Underground."

"Men have died in Hammersmith Broadway," replied the Grand Duke
suavely.

The Prince gritted his teeth. He was no match for his slippery
adversary in a diplomatic dialogue, and he knew it.

"The sun rises in the East," he cried, half-choking, "but it sets--it
sets!"

"So does a hen," was the cynical reply.

The last remnants of the Prince's self-control were slipping away. This
elusive, diplomatic conversation is a terrible strain if one is not in
the mood for it. Its proper setting is the gay, glittering ball-room at
some frivolous court. To a man who has just got the bird at a
music-hall, and who is trying to induce another man to confess that the
thing was his doing, it is little short of maddening.

"Hen!" he echoed, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Have you
studied the habits of hens?"