“The only things I really want to see,” said Lalage, “are the dead Portuguese kings in glass cases.”
“The what?”
“The dead kings. Stuffed, I suppose. Do you mean to say you’ve been here nearly four years and don’t yet know the way they keep their kings, like natural history specimens in a museum? Why, that was the very first thing Hilda found out in the guide book.”
“I didn’t,” said Hilda. “It was you.”
“Let’s credit Selby-Harrison with the discovery,” I said soothingly. “I remember now about those kings. But the exhibition has been closed to the public now for some years. We shan’t be able to get in.”
“What’s the use of being an ambassador,” said Lalage, “if you can’t step in to see a dead king whenever you like?”
An ambassador may be able to claim audiences with deceased royalties, but I was not an ambassador. I offered Lalage as an alternative the nearest thing at my command to dead kings.
“The English cemetery,” I said, “is considered one of the sights of Lisbon. If you are really interested in corpses we might go there.”
“I hate Englishmen,” said Lalage. “All Englishmen.”
“That’s why I suggested their cemetery. It will be immensely gratifying to you to realize what a lot of them have died. The place is nearly full and there are lots of yew trees.”