"Good afternoon, your Royal Highness. I am here purely on a matter of business. I thought it my duty to inform your Royal Highness of the result of the Literature prize." She spoke meekly, and as one who forgave Hyacinth for her unkindness towards her.
"Certainly, Countess. I shall be glad to hear."
The Countess unrolled a parchment.
"The prize has been won," she said, "by——" she held the parchment a little closer to her eyes, "by Charlotte Patacake."
"Oh, yes. Who is she?"
"A most deserving woman, your Royal Highness. If she is the woman I'm thinking of, a most deserving person, to whom the money will be more than welcome. Her poem shows a sense of values combined with—er—breadth, and—er—distance, such as I have seldom seen equalled. The—er—technique is only excelled by the—shall I say?—tempermentality, the boldness of the colouring, by the—how shall I put it?—the firmness of the outline. In short——"
"In short," said the Princess, "you like it."
"Your Royal Highness, it is unique. But naturally you will wish to hear it for yourself. It is only some twelve hundred lines long. I will declaim it to your Royal Highness."
She held the manuscript out at the full length of her left arm, struck an attitude with the right arm, and began in her most thrilling voice:
"King Merriwig the First rode out to war,
As many other kings——"