As he turned away, praying Heaven to see him out of the difficulty, he observed the landlord, who had just entered with bread and cups, muttering some dubious invocations to himself. He clutched at this piece of human stupidity–like a drowning man clutching at a straw: “Ah, landlord, bring in what we live for; and haste ye, sirrah. The wine! The wine!”
“It is ready, sir,” obsequiously replied the landlord, who had just sense enough in his dull cranium to reflect also, by way of complement, “So is Constable Swallow.”
“Good news, good news!” cried Charles; and he tossed his plumed hat upon the sideboard, preparatory to the feast. “D’ye hear, my fair and loving friends? Come, it is impolite to keep the capons waiting. My arms; my arms!”
The King stepped gallantly between the ladies, making a bold play for peace. The Duchess took one arm formally. Nell seized the remaining arm and almost hugged his Majesty, nestling her head affectionately against his shoulder. Charles observed the decorum of due dignity. He was impartial to a fault; for he realized that there only lay his salvation.
The phalanx approached the feast in solemn march. The King tossed his head proudly and observed: “Who would not play the thorn with two such buds to blush on either side?”
There was a halt. The Duchess looked coldly at the table, then coldly at the King, then more coldly at Nell. The King looked at each inquiringly.
“I thought your Majesty ordered supper for three,” she said. “It is set for two.”
“Odsfish, for two!” cried Charles, glancing, anxiously, for the first time at the collation.
Nell had taken her place at the feast, regardless of formality. She was looking out for herself, irrespective of King or Duchess. She believed that a dinner, like the grave, renders all equal.
“Egad!” she exclaimed, as she dwelt upon the force of the Duchess’s observation. “Our host is teaching us the virtues of economy.”