For the glory of England?
The King entered the room with his historic stride. His brow was clouded; but it was all humorous pretence, for trifles were not wont to weigh heavily upon his Majesty. With him came Portsmouth.
“Can you forgive me, Sire?” she asked. “I had promised the dance to Beau Adair. I did not know you, Sire; you masked so cleverly.”
“’Sdeath, fair flatterer!” replied the King. “I have lived too long to worry o’er the freaks of women.”
“The youth knew not to whom he spoke,” still pleaded Portsmouth. “His introduction here bespeaks his pardon, Sire.”
The King looked sardonic, but his laugh had a human ring.
“He is too pretty to kill,” he declared, dramatically. “We’ll forgive him for your sake. And now good night.”
“So soon?” asked Portsmouth, anxiously.
“It is late,” he replied.
“Not while the King is here,” she sighed. “Night comes only when he departs.”