"His Grace is quick in the riposte," she said, "and if Your Majesty gives him the palm—qui meruit ferat! But capon of high grease for my liking."
"But you've said nothing, Lady Paget."
"My wit is like my body, m'am, grown old and rheumy. The salad days of it are over. I abdicate in favour of youth."
Again this adroit lady bowed.
The Queen flushed up, obviously pleased with the compliment. She looked at the King to see if he had heard or understood it.
The King had been talking to the Bishop of London, partly in such Latin as he could muster, which was not much, but principally with the aid of Don Diego Deza, who stood behind His Majesty's chair, and acted as interpreter—the Dominican speaking English fluently.
During the whole of supper Philip had appeared less morose than usual. There was a certain fire of expectancy and complacence in his eye. He had smiled several times; his manner to the Queen had been more genial than it was wont to be—a fact which, in the opinion of everybody, duly accounted for Her Grace's high spirits and merriment.
He looked up now as Lady Paget spoke.
"Ensalada!" he said, having caught one word of Lady Paget's speech—salad. "Yes, give me some salad. It is the one thing"—he hastened to correct himself—"it is one of the things they make better in England than in my country."
The Queen was in high glee.