There were a number of ladies to whom it was necessary for him to bow in acknowledgment of past favors which had missed their mark.

From the gallery the washed-out female journalists poked out their eager faces--for they were women still, and liked to look upon a man when he was strong.
And all the while Karl Steinmetz was storming in his guttural English at the door, upbraiding hired waiters for their stupidity in accepting two literal facts literally.

The one fact was that they were forbidden to admit any one without a ticket; the second fact being that tickets were not to be obtained at the price of either one or the other of the two great motives of man--Love or Money.
Steinmetz was Teutonic and imposing, with the ribbon of a great Order on his breast.

He mentioned the names of several ladies who might have been, but were not, of the committee.

Finally, however, he mentioned the historic name of one whose husband had braved more than one Russian emperor successfully for England.
"Yes, me lord, her ladyship's here," answered the man.
Steinmetz wrote on a card, "In memory of '56, let me in," and sent in the missive.
A few minutes later a stout, smiling lady came toward him with outstretched hand.
"What mischief are you about ?" she enquired, "you stormy petrel! This is no place for your deep-laid machinations.