The Gardener.
[Approaching Moss-Rose with a bunch of the flowers that he has plucked.] Sixteen, and one for luck!
Moss-Rose.
How good you all are to me!
[The Gardener and The Cook followed by their attendants, go.]
The Chancellor.
Sixteen!... We soon shall be having to find a suitable alliance for our Princess!
The King.
Dear, dear, there you go again! I’ve been all over the map, and there’s nobody, positively nobody, that will do! They are all so ignorant; they only speak foreign languages! What do I want with a son-in-law who can only laugh at my jokes through an interpreter?