The King looked at his brother with an air of bantering seriousness, to the delight of all assembled.
“Brother James is jealous of the old ones only,” he observed. “You know his favourites are given him by his priests for penance.”
A merry ripple ran through the group.
The hostess took advantage of the King’s speech to make a point.
“And you are jealous of the young ones only,” she said, slyly, quickly adding as a bid for jealousy: “Pooh, pooh! Le Beau had letters to me, Sire. Nay, we do not love him very much. We have not as yet had time.”
“Alas, alas,” sighed Charles, with drooping countenance, “that it should come to this.”
“My liege, I protest–” cried Portsmouth, hastily, fearful lest she might have gone too far. “To-night is the first I ever saw the youth. I adore you, Sire.”
“Not a word!” commanded Charles, with mock-heroic mien. He waved his hand imperatively to his followers. “Friends,” he continued, “we will mix masks and dominoes and to’t again to drown our sorrow.”
“In the Thames?” inquired James, facetiously for him.
“Tush! In the punch-bowl, pious brother!” protested the Merry Monarch, with great dignity. “You know, a very little water will drown even a king.”