"Certainly," I answered, curtly.
January, 1891.
Dear L.,—King Oscar is a king after one's ideas of what a king ought to be. He looks the king every inch of him, and that is saying a good deal, because he is over six feet. He has a splendid physique, is handsome and of much talent. He is a writer and a poet, and speaks all languages. You must be told that some kings are kings; but King Oscar, there is no doubt about what he is!
At a concert the other evening he came and sat by me, and began talking of music, of his singing, and my singing, and so forth, and finished by saying, "Would you like to have me come to you some day and sing?"
"Of course, your Majesty," I said. "I should be delighted. When may we have the honor of expecting you?"
"How would next Thursday be?" he asked. "And would half past two be agreeable to you?"
I replied, "Any day or any hour will suit me," although it was in fact the only day which did not suit me, as it was my reception-day.
"I hope that we may be quite by ourselves," said the King. "Only you and the members of your Legation."
This I could easily promise, as I should have, in any case, closed my doors.
"Your Majesty will stay and have a cup of tea. I hope."