“‘Am I not dead?’” I asked.
“‘Good Queen Bess will never die,’ responded the baronet, with ready wit. Then he laughed as the newsboy picked up his papers from the muddy street, loudly bewailing the prank of the wind which had spoiled his stock in trade.”
Elizabeth again did violence to my conceptions of royalty by laughing at her own wit; then she said:
“Sir Scribe, it seems to me that you haven’t progressed well with your interview. You haven’t once indulged in those misfit personalities which bring your American papers so many libel suits. When I received your card I anticipated that I should be discussed by myself and dissected by you. I expected you would be concerned as to whether my ancestors belonged to that little company of gentlemen who jumped from tree to tree in Africa and was prepared to tell you, as I have told Darwin, that even a baboon can have a respectable daughter!”
Being a blue point is not conducive to successful interviewing, so I shook off my lethargy and asked as to her favorite flower.
“That is better,” approved her Grace. “I have two favorites—bachelors’ buttons and mock orange blossoms.”
“If not yourself, who would you rather be?”
“The author of one of the six ‘best sellers.’”
“Who is your favorite character in history?”
“I really must decline to answer.”