The tears were streaming from her glaring eyes and running down her kitchen-scorched cheeks. She certainly was looking frowsy.
"See? I should think I did. Mr. Rose Sir, if I say it to Your face, saint was what I always said of You. Dear! Dear! To think of me giving way like this. Well, well, You're too good for this world, Your Majesty. Oh and I've taken the liberty of bringing you a jar of pickled samphire like what You used to fancy. I've picked it and did it up myself with my own 'ands;—and I thought perhaps You wouldn't mind 'aving this antimacassar which I've worked for You, 'oly Father. I knew all Your 'oly chairs'ld be red, because I've seen pictures of them; and I thought that the grey and the orange would brighten up a dark corner for You."
Hadrian thanked her kindly; and took her little offerings as though He prized them more than His tiara; and made her infinitely happy.
"Well now I won't detain Your Majesty, because I know there must be no end of grand people waiting about to see You, and me occupying Your time like this, 'oly Father. So I'll just ask You to pray for me and give me a blessing; and thank You Sir for all You've done for me, and I'll say a prayer for You every day as long as I'm spared."
She got on her knees: and the Pontiff blessed her. Then He said,
"When do you go back, Mrs. Dixon?"
"Well, Your 'oly Majesty, I was thinking of looking about a bit while I'm 'ere, so as to have plenty to say to the lodgers: but I can't stay more than a week longer."
Hadrian wrote on a card, The bearer, Mrs. Agnes Dixon, is Our guest. Receive and assist her. He signed it; and gave it to her, saying, "You know this place is full of lovely things, pictures and so on. And there are heaps of sacred relics in the churches. Well now, that card will admit you to see everything."
"Will they let me see the fans?"