"I was thinking, sire," she replied, smiling into his drowsy eyes.
"For God's sake, I entreat, do not think!" exclaimed the King, with mock alarm. "Thought produces wrinkles, and your perfect mouth was only fashioned for smiles."
"May I frame a suggestion?" she queried archly.
"No, only a command."
"This Comptroller of Finance, your future master, Louis, and mine——"
"Your slave," he interrupted lazily, "and he values his life."
"Why not milor Eglinton?"
"Le petit Anglais?" and Louis's fat body was shaken with sudden immoderate laughter. "Par Dieu, ma mie! Of all your witty sallies this one hath pleased us most."
"Why?" she asked seriously.
"Le petit Anglais!" again laughed the King. "I'd as soon give the appointment to your lapdog, Marquise. Fido would have as much capacity for the post as the ornamental cypher that hangs on his mother's skirts."