'Nothing less. It is announced to take place at Drury Lane Theatre, and the house is sold, from pit to gallery.'
'Oh! it is only a play, then?' said Raymond, in a relieved tone.
'I don't know what you mean by a play,' returned the King, looking slightly hurt. 'It takes place on the stage, of course; but it is as much earnest as anything that goes on in London.'
'Certainly—of course,' said Raymond, anxious not to seem ignorant of fashionable customs. 'But whom do the conspirators mean to put on the throne in your stead? Your son?'
'My Assimund, you mean? Well, that is just the point. My son Assimund is a perfectly harmless young fellow, but—in fact—he is rather too much so.'
'Too much so?'
'Yes—he is—as I might say—hum!' And the King tapped his forehead significantly.
'You don't mean———' And Raymond laid his forefinger between his eyes and then shook it in the air.
'Fact, I assure you.'
'Dear me, how sad!'