They followed Syme up the dark stair in silence, and they all came out simultaneously into the broad sunlight of the morning and the broad sunlight of Sunday’s smile.
“Delightful!” he said. “So pleased to see you all. What an exquisite day it is. Is the Czar dead?”
The Secretary, who happened to be foremost, drew himself together for a dignified outburst.
“No, sir,” he said sternly “there has been no massacre. I bring you news of no such disgusting spectacles.”
“Disgusting spectacles?” repeated the President, with a bright, inquiring smile. “You mean Dr. Bull’s spectacles?”
The Secretary choked for a moment, and the President went on with a sort of smooth appeal—
“Of course, we all have our opinions and even our eyes, but really to call them disgusting before the man himself—”
Dr. Bull tore off his spectacles and broke them on the table.
“My spectacles are blackguardly,” he said, “but I’m not. Look at my face.”
“I dare say it’s the sort of face that grows on one,” said the President, “in fact, it grows on you; and who am I to quarrel with the wild fruits upon the Tree of Life? I dare say it will grow on me some day.”
“We have no time for tomfoolery,” said the Secretary, breaking in savagely. “We have come to know what all this means. Who are you? What are you? Why did you get us all here? Do you know who and what we are? Are you a half-witted man playing the conspirator, or are you a clever man playing the fool? Answer me, I tell you.”