The Man from St. Petersburg by Ken Follett

Charlotte.”
    Lydia said: “Who was that awful girl?”
    “I heard someone say she’s the daughter of an architect,” Walden replied.
    “That explains it,” said Lydia.
    Charlotte looked mystified. “Why does that explain it?”
    Walden smiled. “Your mama means that the girl is not quite out of the top drawer.”
    “But why does she think the King tortures women?”
    “She was talking about the suffragettes. But let’s not go into all that tonight; this is a grand occasion for us. Let’s have supper. It looks marvelous.”
    There was a long buffet table loaded with flowers and hot and cold food. Servants in the scarlet-and-gold royal livery waited to offer the guests lobster, filleted trout, quail, York ham, plovers’ eggs and a host of pastries and desserts. Walden got a loaded plate and sat down to eat. After standing about in the Throne Room for more than two hours he was hungry.
    Sooner or later Charlotte would have to learn about the suffragettes, their hunger strikes, and the consequent force-feeding; but the subject was indelicate, to say the least, and the longer she remained in blissful ignorance the better, Walden thought. At her age life should be all parties and picnics, frocks and hats, gossip and flirtation.
    But everyone was talking about “the incident” and “that girl.” Walden’s brother, George, sat beside him and said without preamble: “She’s a Miss Mary Blomfield, daughter of the late Sir Arthur Blomfield. Her mother was in the drawing room at the time. When she was told what her daughter had done she fainted right off.” He seemed to relish the scandal.
    “Only thing she could do, I suppose,” Walden replied.
    “Damn shame for the family,” George said. “You won’t see Blomfields at court again for two or three generations.”
    “We shan’t miss them.”
    “No.”
    Walden saw Churchill pushing through the crowd toward where they sat. He had written to Churchill about his talk with Aleks, and he was impatient to discuss the next step—but not here. He looked away, hoping Churchill would get the hint. He should have known better than to hope that such a subtle message would get through.
    Churchill bent over Walden’s chair. “Can we have a few words together?”
    Walden looked at his brother. George wore an expression of horror. Walden threw him a resigned look and got up.
    “Let’s walk in the picture gallery,” Churchill said.
    Walden followed him out.
    Churchill said: “I suppose you, too, will tell me that this suffragette protest is all the fault of the Liberal party.”
    “I expect it is,” Walden said. “But that isn’t what you want to talk about.”
    “No, indeed.”
    The two men walked side by side through the long gallery. Churchill said: “We can’t acknowledge the Balkans as a Russian sphere of influence.”
    “I was afraid you’d say that.”
    “What do they want the Balkans for? I mean, forgetting all this nonsense about sympathy with Slav nationalism.”
    “They want passage through to the Mediterranean.”
    “That would be to our advantage, if they were our allies.”
    “Exactly.”
    They reached the end of the gallery and stopped. Churchill said: “Is there some way we can give them that passage without redrawing the map of the Balkan Peninsula?”
    “I’ve been thinking about that.”
    Churchill smiled. “And you’ve got a counterproposal.”
    “Yes.”
    “Let’s hear it.”
    Walden said, “What we’re talking about here is three stretches of water: the Bosporus, the Sea of Marmara and the Dardanelles. If we can give them those waterways, they won’t need the Balkans. Now, suppose that whole passage between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean could be declared an international waterway, with free passage to ships of all nations guaranteed jointly by Russia and England.”
    Churchill started walking again, slow and thoughtful. Walden walked beside him, waiting for his answer.
    Eventually Churchill said: “That passage