Blanco's expressive face mirrored a shade of resentment. He had come on summons from the King and found himself listening to the familiar, even disrespectful, chatter of some underling who laughed at his Monarch and lightly appraised the value of his life while he smoked cigarettes in the Royal apartments. The Spaniard bowed stiffly.
"I observe you are in the confidence of the King," he said, in a tone not untouched with disapproval.
The other man's lips curled in amusement. After a moment he replied with simple gravity.
"I am the King."
Blanco stood gazing in astonishment. "You—the King!" Then, recognizing that the shaving of a mustache and the change into civilian clothes had made the difference in a face and figure he had seen only on the streets and through shifting crowds, he bowed with belated deference.
Karyl once more held out his case. "Now perhaps you will have a cigarette?"
The toreador took one and lighted it slowly. The King went on.
"My sole pleasure is pretending that I am not a Monarch. Between ourselves, I should prefer other employment. You, for example, I am told have won fame in the bull ring—and it was fame you earned for yourself."
Blanco flushed, then, bethinking himself of the fact that he had been brought here presumably with a purpose, he ventured to suggest: "Your Majesty wished to see me about some matter?"
The other shook his head.