"Quite unnecessary, I'm sure."
"Ah, but if you were in my position then you'd see—then you'd understand. You couldn't do it; you simply couldn't do it."
The King was now saying what he really believed, and at the sound of his own voice telling him he realized that all he had to do was to temporize and time would bring its own solution. If Max were King he could no more do this thing than he could fly. Why, then, should he trouble himself?
To cover his change of ground he continued the argument, and on every point allowed Max to beat him (he could not probably have prevented it, but that was the way he put it to himself), and finally, when he felt that he could in decency throw up the sponge, he let Max have his way—or the way to it, which was the same thing.
"Well," he said, "I can't give you my consent all at once. I must have time to turn round and think about it; you must have time too. But if——" here he paused and did a short sum of mental arithmetic. "Yes," he went on, "if in two months from now you find me still upon the throne—and I'm sure I don't know that you will with the way things are going and all the worry I've had—but if you do, and are still of the same mind about it, then you may come to me and I will give you my consent."
A quiet, rapturous smile passed over the face of Max. "May I have that in writing, sir?" he said.
The King was rather taken aback, and a little affronted. "Do you doubt my word?" he demanded.
"Not in the least, but it is your consent I have to get. You might have a stroke, or lose your memory; you might even die, and there should I be left stranded. My love is so great that I can let it run no risks. And therefore, sir, if you will be so good, a promissory note to take effect in two months' time."
"You won't tell your mother?" said the King, halting, pen in hand.
Max shook his head sagely. "Nobody shall know," said he. "No filter could contain such news as this." He took the precious document from the King's hand, folded it, and put it away.