The crowd outside of No.

10 Downing Street that evening was so dense that all traffic was at a standstill.

But within the historic room where the Cabinet were seated about the long table all was calm.

Few could have guessed from the quiet demeanour of the group of statesmen that the fate of an Empire hung by a thread.
Seated at the head of the table, the Prime Minister was quietly looking over a book of butterflies, while waiting for the conference to begin.
Beside him the Secretary for Ireland was fixing trout flies, while the Chancellor of the Exchequer kept his serene face bent over upon his needlework.

At the Prime Minister's right, Sir John Elphinspoon, no longer agitated, but sustained and dignified by the responsibility of his office, was playing spillikins.
The little clock on the mantel chimed eight.
The Premier closed his book of butterflies.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I fear our meeting will not be a protracted one.