With cold courtesy the subject of the approaching Coronation was dropped, until the next day, when the appalling, the stupefying news of the postponement of the Coronation spread through the hushed streets of the great metropolis.
The King was dying, was perhaps already dead. The King had undergone a critical operation and his life still hung in the balance.
The King could not be crowned.
Already the black wings of Death seemed to be stretched over the mighty city, with its millions and millions of inhabitants. The multitude was waiting in hushed expectancy, in breathless suspense.
Hansie, walking through the streets with one of the men whose sympathy on board had been of such unspeakable comfort to her, never felt more unreal in her life. Her mind was in a maze, she groped about for words with which to clothe her thoughts, but groped in vain, for even the power of thought had been suspended for a time.
Her companion, glancing at her face, asked suddenly, curiously:
"Would you be glad if King Edward were to die?"
There was a long pause, while the girl strove to analyse her feelings.
At last she answered slowly, simply, truthfully:
"No; I would be sorry."