“And don’t you go muffing them with the landing-net, Jack, as you generally do,” said
his Royal Highness, as he lit his bedroom candle.
“I wish he would not call me Jack,” said the princess to the queen.
“It’s better than Lina, my dear,” said her Majesty, who in late life had become fond of her little joke; “that always sounds as if someone else was fatter,—and I hope there is not someone else.”
The princess was silent, and fixed her eyes on her book.
Presently the king came in, and played a game with Lina at picquet. When they were all going to bed, he said:
“Just come into the study, Lina. I want you to write a few letters for me.”
The princess followed him and took her seat at the writing table. The letters were very short. One was to Herr Schnipp, tailor to the king and royal family; another was to the royal
swordmaker, another to the bootmaker, another to the optician, another to the tradesman who supplied the august family with carpets and rugs, another to his Majesty’s hatter. They were all summoned to be at the palace early next morning. Then his Majesty yawned, apologised, and went to bed. The princess also went to her room, or bower as it was then called, but not to sleep.
She was unhappy that Dick did not satisfy his father, and that he was so careless, and also about other things.