"Heaven forbid; but I wonder what History would say of Queen Daisy!"
I looked up to answer calmly:
"History would despatch her with a few more &cs., Cornelius; such as: 'The most obscure of our long line of sovereigns, &c. Instead of emulating the Elizabeths and the Catherines, &c. Although with the intellectual mediocrity of her sex, &c. Her reign was nevertheless illustrated by a certain Irish artist, &c, &c.'"
"The Irish artist respectfully kisses her Majesty's hand," said Cornelius, raising my hand to his lips with mock homage; "he ventures to hope that, spite of the distance of rank, something like friendship existed between him and Queen Daisy."
He still held my hand in his; encouraged by the friendly kindness of the clasp, I replied:
"So much friendship that, on one propitious occasion, Queen Daisy ventured to remind her friend that time was passing fast, and his fame yet to win."
Cornelius dropped my hand, and asked, gravely:
"Does History say how this advice was received?"
"History is silent," I replied, with a beating heart. "How do you think it ended, Cornelius?"
"I think," he replied, smiling as our looks met, "that most artists would have civilly requested her Majesty to mind the affairs of the State. Painters are a touchy race, better accustomed to royal favour than to royal advice. The brush of Titian was picked up by Charles V.; Holbein found the English Bluebeard gentle; Leonardo da Vinci died in the arms of Francis I.; and, I suppose the artist we now allude to must have been spoiled by favours still more high, for I have heard that on this occasion he had the presumption to request of her Majesty—"