He was back at the stroke of the clock to announce his "sublime master" for one in the afternoon.
"I will be ready to receive his Royal Highness. My household shall be instructed," I answered coldly, though I dread that old man.
"You are not wanted," I told Frederick Augustus. "Better make yourself scarce." He didn't need to be told twice. "Undress-uniform," he shouted to his valet. "And send somebody for a cab."
"Why a cab?" I inquired.
He looked at me in a pitying way. "Women are such geese," he made answer. "Don't you see, if I left the palace in one of our own carriages, the King, or father, might notice and call me back."
"Oh, very well. And don't 'celebrate' too much while you are out."
I had the lackeys line the staircase and corridors. My military household stood in the first ante-chamber, my courtiers in the second, my ladies in the third when Prince George walked into my parlor. At first he acted in no unfriendly manner. He kissed me on the forehead and asked after the babies, and if he hadn't riveted his eyes all the time into some corner of the room—his stratagem when in an ugly mood—I might have persuaded myself that he wasn't on mischief bent.
But he soon began pouring out his bile. With a face like a wooden martyr he announced that he was not pleased with me.
"You are too much of a light-weight, too vivacious, too attractive to the mob," he said in his bitterest tones. "You are forever seeking the public eye like—an actress."
"I beg your Royal Highness to take notice that Imperial Princesses of Austria"—I put some emphasis on the Imperial—"while popular, never descend to jugglery," I answered politely, but firmly.