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Lady Humnoddie’s regular receptions were on Fridays, she was glad to see any old friends who chose to come in to tea on Sundays; and this eventful week our heroine and her uncle found her alone about half-past five. The conversation, of course, turned upon the Cabinet Council.

‘They won’t do anything, bless you, Mr Bristley,’ she said, in reply to a question of his; ‘it'll all end in smoke, you'll see. We shall never fight for Afghanistan,—had enough of that hornet’s nest; and, after all, Afghanistan is not India. If the Afghans like the Russians for masters, I don’t see what we can do to prevent their having them.’

‘What’s up now, I wonder?’ said Lesbia, going to the window. ‘What a row the newsmen are making down the street! What can they have got hold of on Sunday afternoon? Surely not the result of the Cabinet Council already?’

‘Throw the sash wider open, Lesbie,’ said the marchioness; ‘some humbug, I suppose; but let’s hear.’

The men came within hearing, selling copies of a new Sunday halfpenny sheet at every area railing.

‘''Telltale, special! Telltale! Assassination of the Emperor''