Sir Roger was silent. The King looked at him narrowly, and saw that there was something in his thoughts which he was not inclined to utter, and with wise tact and discretion forbore to press any more questions upon him. It was not a suitable time for cross-examination, even of the most friendly kind; there were too many persons near at hand who might be disposed to listen and to form conjectures; moreover the favouring wind had so aided the Royal yacht in her swift course that The Islands were now close at hand, and the harbour visible, the run across from the mainland having been accomplished under the usual two hours.
The King scanned the coast through his glass with some interest.
“We shall obtain amusement from this unprepared trip,” he said, addressing the friends who were gathered round him; “We have forbidden any announcement of our visit here, and, therefore, we shall receive no recognition, or welcome. We shall have to take the people as we find them!”
“Let us hope they will prove themselves agreeable, Sir,” said one of the suite, the Marquis Montala, a somewhat effeminate elegant-looking man, with small delicate features and lazily amorous eyes,—“And that the women of the place will not be too alarmingly hideous.”
“Women are always women.” said the King gaily; “And you, Montala, if you cannot find a pretty one, will put up with an ugly one for the moment rather than have none at all! But beauty exists everywhere, and I daresay we shall find it in as good evidence here as in other parts of the kingdom. Our land is famous for its lovely women,”—and turning to Sir Walter Langton he added—“I think, Sir Walter, we can almost beat your England in that one particular!”
“Some years ago, Sir, I should have accepted that challenge,” returned Sir Walter, “And with the deepest respect for your Majesty, I should have ventured to deny the assertion that any country in the world could surpass England for the beauty of its women. But since the rage for masculine sports and masculine manners has taken hold of English girls, I am not at all disposed to defend them. They have, unhappily, lost all the soft grace and modesty for which their grandmothers were renowned, and one begins to remark that their very shapes are no longer feminine. The beautiful full bosoms, admired by Gainsborough and Romney, are replaced by an unbecoming flatness—the feet and hands are growing large and awkward, instead of being well-shaped, white and delicate—the skin is becoming coarse and rough of texture, and there is very little complexion to boast of, if we except the artificial make-up of the women of the town. Some few pretty and natural women remain in the heart of the forest and the country, but the contamination is spreading, and English women are no longer the models of womanhood for all the world.”
“Are you married, Sir Walter?” asked the King with a smile.
“To no woman, Sir! I have married England—I love her and work for her only!”
“You find that love sufficient to fill your heart?”
“Perhaps,” returned Sir Walter musingly—“perhaps if I speak personally and selfishly—no! But when I argue the point logically, I find this—that if I had a wife she might probably occupy too much of my time,—certes, if I had children, I should be working for them and their future welfare;—as it is, I give all my life and all my work to my country, and my King!”