I could not but understand her, and only shook my head. The queen then, as if she thought she had said too much, with great sweetness and condescension, drew back herself, and, very delicately, said,
“To be sure it is, I own, a very home question, for one who has not the pleasure to know you.”
I was quite ashamed of this apology, but did not know what to say to it. But how amiable a simplicity in her speaking of herself in such a style,—“for one who has not the pleasure to know you.”
“But, indeed,” continued she, presently, “I would not say it, only that I think from what has been done, there is a power to do so much good—and good to young people, which is so very good a thing—that I cannot help wishing it could be.”
I felt very grateful for this speech, and for the very soft manner in which she said it; and I very much wished to thank her and was trying to mutter something, though not very intelligibly, when the king suddenly coming up to us, inquired what was going forward.
The queen readily repeated her kind speech.
The king eagerly undertook to make my answer for me, crying, “O, but she will write!—she only waits for inclination—she told me so.” Then, speaking to me, he said, “What—is it not so?”
I only laughed a little; and he again said to the queen,
“She will write. She told me, just now, she had made no vow against It.”
“No, no,” cried the queen, “I hope not, indeed.”