“‘The crown is too weighty
For shoulders of eighty—
She could not sustain such a trophy:
Her hand, too, already
Has grown so unsteady,
She can’t hold a sceptre:
So Providence kept her
Away—poor old dowager Sophy!’”
Sir Richard threw his head back, and indulged in unfeigned merriment. Phoebe, in her corner, felt rather indignant. Why should the Princess Sophia, or any other woman, be laughed at solely for growing old?
“Capital good jest!” said the Baronet, his amusement over. “I heard from a friend that I met at the Bath, that the Queen is looking vastly well this summer—quite rid of her gout.”
“So do I hear,” returned the Bishop. “What think you of the price set on the Pretender’s head?”
Sir Richard whistled.
“The Queen’s own sole act, without any concurrence of her Ministers,” continued the Bishop.
“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Sir Richard. “Five thousand, I was told?”
“Five thousand. An excellent notion, I take it.”
“Well—I—don’t—know!” slowly answered Sir Richard. “I cannot but feel very doubtful of the mischievous consequence that may ensue. A price on the head of the Prince of Wales! Sounds bad, my Lord—sounds bad! Though, indeed, he be not truly the Queen’s brother, yet ’tis unnatural for his sister to set a price on his head.”
By which remark it will be seen that Sir Richard’s intellect was not of the first order. The intellect of Bishop Atterbury was: and a slightly contemptuous smile played on his lips for a moment.