"Please, Caruthers, may I have leave off games for a week? I have had a bad foot."
"Did Matron say so?"
"Oh yes."
"All right, then."
He walked up the stairs to his study, smiling to himself. What had he been fretting himself about? He had his power. He had the things he had wanted.
"Is it not brave to be a king?
Is it not passing brave to be a king
And ride in triumph through Persepolis?"
Marlowe had been right, Marlowe with the pagan soul that loved material things, glitter and splendour, crowns and roses, red lips and gleaming arms.
"A god is not so glorious as a king ...
To ask and have, command and be obeyed."
And there was no doubt he was a king. He must make the best of his kingdom while he held it.