LORD B. The Queen! God bless her!
(He drains the glass, then breaks it against the pole of the tent, and throws away the stem.)
An old custom, Madam, observed by loyal defenders of the House of Stewart, so that no lesser health might ever be drunk from the same glass. To my old hand came a sudden access of youthful enthusiasm—an ardour which I could not restrain. Your pardon, Madam!
QUEEN (very gently). Go and lie down, Lord Beaconsfield; you need rest.
LORD B. Adieu, Madam.
QUEEN. Draw your curtains, and sleep well!
(For a moment he stands gazing at her with a look of deep emotion; he tries to speak. Ordinary words seem to fail; he falters into poetry.)
"When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering Angel, thou!"
(It has been beautifully said, they both feel. Silent and slow, with head reverentially bowed, he backs from the Presence.)
(The Queen sits and looks after the retreating figure, then at the broken fragments of glass. She takes up the hand-bell and rings. The Attendant ENTERS.)