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The
man
in
the
painting
looked
inquiringly
at
the
Prime
Minister
.
"
Er
,
"
said
the
Prime
Minister
,
"
listen
...
it
's
not
a
very
good
time
for
me
...
I
'm
waiting
for
a
telephone
call
,
you
see
...
from
the
president
of
--
"
"
That
can
be
rearranged
,
"
said
the
portrait
at
once
.
The
Prime
Minister
's
heart
sank
.
He
had
been
afraid
of
that
.
"
But
I
really
was
rather
hoping
to
speak
--
"
"
We
shall
arrange
for
the
president
to
forget
to
call
.
He
will
telephone
tomorrow
night
instead
,
"
said
the
little
man
.
"
Kindly
respond
immediately
to
Mr.
Fudge
.
"
"
I.
.
.
oh
...
very
well
,
"
said
the
Prime
Minister
weakly
.
"
Yes
,
I
'll
see
Fudge
.
"
He
hurried
back
to
his
desk
,
straightening
his
tie
as
he
went
.
He
had
barely
resumed
his
seat
,
and
arranged
his
face
into
what
he
hoped
was
a
relaxed
and
unfazed
expression
,
when
bright
green
flames
burst
into
life
in
the
empty
grate
beneath
his
marble
mantelpiece
.
He
watched
,
trying
not
to
betray
a
flicker
of
surprise
or
alarm
,
as
a
portly
man
appeared
within
the
flames
,
spinning
as
fast
as
a
top
.
Seconds
later
,
he
had
climbed
out
onto
a
rather
fine
antique
rug
,
brushing
ash
from
the
sleeves
of
his
long
pin-striped
cloak
,
a
lime-green
bowler
hat
in
his
hand
.
"
Ah
...
Prime
Minister
,
"
said
Cornelius
Fudge
,
striding
forward
with
his
hand
outstretched
.
"
Good
to
see
you
again
.
"
The
Prime
Minister
could
not
honestly
return
this
compliment
,
so
said
nothing
at
all
.
He
was
not
remotely
pleased
to
see
Fudge
,
whose
occasional
appearances
,
apart
from
being
downright
alarming
in
themselves
,
generally
meant
that
he
was
about
to
hear
some
very
bad
news
.
Furthermore
,
Fudge
was
looking
distinctly
careworn
.
He
was
thinner
,
balder
,
and
grayer
,
and
his
face
had
a
crumpled
look
.
The
Prime
Minister
had
seen
that
kind
of
look
in
politicians
before
,
and
it
never
boded
well
.
