Mrs. St. George, none too pleased with this attribution of friendship and thinking the question in the worst possible taste, drew herself up perceptibly.
“Indeed, madam, I have heard nothing. These matters which affect Her Majesty’s good pleasure are not discussed in society. I really can offer no opinion.”
But still Emma persisted: “Indeed, I think ’tis impossible Queen Charlotte should refuse an honour bestowed daily by a queen so much her superior in birth and—”
“I fear, madam, I must insist that the Queen of England has no superior—indeed, no equal,” says the fair Mrs. St. George, slightly tossing her pretty head. “I must only attribute it to your long absence from England that you should think otherwise.”
“No equal!” cries Emma, flushing over neck and bosom. “The daughter of the Empress Maria Theresa, the mother of the present Empress, the wife—”
“Madam, you and I are English subjects,” says the young lady with an air of finality.
“But Sir William is the foster brother of King George. His great services—my own—”
“Indeed, I can’t doubt,” interrupts the pretty widow again, “that their Majesties are perfectly capable of noticing and rewarding any service. Her Majesty is known all the world over for her propriety of judgment.”
Emma bursts into a laugh a little too loud and forced for the occasion.
“Well, for my part, I hear the Court is as dull as ditch-water! I care little if she receives me or no. I had much sooner she would settle half Sir William’s pension on me. Fair words butter no parsnips.”