ONE OF THE STEEDS. I wasn’t told about this. It isn’t fair.
LORD MAYOR (darkly). If your Grace wishes to withdraw—
(She stamps.)
KING. The Lord Mayor will now apply the test.
LORD MAYOR (to a gold page). The therm-mo-ometers, boy!
(A whole boxful of thermometers is presented to him by the page on bended knee. The LORD MAYOR is now in his element. He has ridden in gold coaches and knows what hussies young women often are. To dainty music he trips up the line of beauties and pops a tube into each pouting mouth. The competitors circle around, showing their paces while he stands, watch in hand, giving them two minutes. Then airily he withdraws the tubes; he is openly gleeful when he finds sinners. Twice he is in doubt, it is a very near thing, and he has to consult the KING in whispers: the KING takes the QUEEN aside, to whisper behind the door as it were; then they both look at LORD TIMES, who, without even stepping forward, says ‘No’—and the doubtfuls are at once bundled out of the chamber with the certainties. Royalty sighs, and the courtiers sigh and the LORD MAYOR sighs in a perfunctory way, but there is a tossing of manes from the beauties who have scraped through.)
KING (stirring up the PRINCE, who has fallen asleep). Our Royal Bud will now graciously deign to pick out a few possibles.
(His Royal Highness yawns.)
LORD MAYOR (obsequiously). If your Highness would like a little assistance—
PRINCE (you never know how they will take things). We shall do this for ourselves, my good fellow.