East contained in the Sunday papers that Geoffrey
Cliffe had brought down, and presumed to form part of the despatches
which the two ministers staying in the house had received that afternoon
by Foreign Office messenger. The government of Teheran was in one of its
periodical fits of ill-temper with England; had been meddling with
Afghanistan, flirting badly with Russia, and bringing ridiculous charges
against the British minister. An expedition to Bushire was talked of,
and the Radical press was on the war-path. The cabinet minister said
little. A Lord Privy Seal, reverentially credited with advising royalty
in its private affairs, need have no views on the Persian Gulf. But Ashe
was appealed to and talked well. The minister at Teheran was an old
friend of his, and he described the personal attacks made on him for
political reasons by the Shah and his ministers with a humor which kept
the table entertained.

Suddenly Cliffe interposed. He had been listening with restlessness,
though Ashe, with pointed courtesy, had once or twice included him in
the conversation. And presently, at a somewhat dramatic moment, he met a
statement of Ashe's with a direct and violent contradiction. Ashe
flushed, and a duel began between the two men of which the company were
soon silent spectators. Ashe had the resources of official knowledge;
Cliffe had been recently on the spot, and pushed home the advantage of
the eye-witness with a covert insolence which Ashe bore with surprising
carelessness and good-temper. In the end Cliff e said some outrageous
things, at which Ashe laughed; and Lord Grosville abruptly dissolved the
party.

Ashe went smiling out of the dining-room, caressing a fine white
spaniel, as though nothing had happened. In crossing the hall Harman
found himself alone with the Dean, who looked serious and preoccupied.

"That was a curious spectacle," said Harman. "Ashe's equanimity was
amazing."

"I had rather have seen him angrier," said the Dean, slowly.

"He was always a very tolerant, easy-going fellow."

The Dean shook his head.

"A touch of <i>soeva indignatio</i> now and then would complete him."

"Has he got it in him?"

"Perhaps not," said the little Dean, with a flash of expression that
dignified all his frail person. "But without it he will hardly make a
great man."

Meanwhile Geoffrey Cliffe, his strange, twisted face still vindictively
aglow, made his way to Kitty Bristol's corner in the drawing-room. Ma