That dreadful dream is becoming a heart-breaking reality.
The Tisch entered my boudoir last night in her mantilla, emblem of her office as Grand Mistress.
Some dirty business on hand, I surmised at once.
"Imperial Highness," she said, genuflexing ceremoniously, "I submit that your artist takes too long about the portrait. Your Imperial Highness's visits to the studio must cease."
"Since when do you give orders here, Baroness?"
"His Majesty empowered me," answered the Grand Dame.
"In that case, do as you like, but don't bother me," I cried bravely enough, but trembling in every limb. The Tisch, no doubt, is preparing to deal me another blow.
When I told Richard that henceforth we would have to exercise extra care, he was beside himself with rage.
"Why stand such tyranny?" he cried. "No self-respecting woman, other than royal, would submit for a single week to be bullied and intrigued against and threatened and browbeaten as you are, and they have ill-used you for eleven years. If you were a simple Cit's daughter, instead of the descendant of a decrepit, bloodless family, yclept royal, you would make an end now, leave them to their shabby kingship and be a free woman—free and happy."
My lover forgets the children, but the picture of the free life he draws is most attractive.