“And am I not to have one?” asked the king, his eyes full of paternal love and pride.
“They are for your Majesty's table,” she answered.
“Your Majesty!” cried the king in mimic despair. “Was ever a father treated thus? Your Majesty! Do you not know, my dear, that to me 'father' is the grandest title in the world?”
Suddenly she crossed over and kissed the king on the cheek, and he held her to him for a moment.
The bulldog had risen, and was wagging his tail the best he knew how. If there was any young woman who could claim his unreserved admiration, it was the Princess Alexia. She never talked nonsense to him in their rambles together, but treated him as he should be treated, as an animal of enlightenment.
“And here is Bull,” said the princess, tickling the dog's nose with a scarlet geranium.
“Your Highness thinks a deal of Bull?” said the dog's master.
“Yes, Monsieur, he doesn't bark, and he seems to understand all I say to him.”
The dog looked up at his master as if to say: “There now, what do you think of that?”
“To-morrow I am going away,” said the diplomat, “and as I can not very well take Bull with me, I give him to you.”