It was the eve of his departure for Ireland; he had yesterday prorogued Parliament, and laughed a little as he related the discomfiture of the Whigs at his speech.
"I shall be glad to be under canvas again," he added. "For myself it will be a holiday, but I pity the poor Queen." He repeated with great tenderness—"the poor Queen!"
"How doth she take your going?" asked the Earl.
"Ah, heavily—what have I brought her but affliction?—sometimes I think of that——"
He spoke sadly, and pressed Bentinck's hand.
"Be good to the Queen," he said wistfully. "As you love me, William, help the Queen when I am not here.... I think women have the harder part."
"I have great faith in her courage and wisdom, sir," said the Earl.
"There is no woman like her," answered the King, under his breath. He added aloud, with a flashing smile, "As there is no friend in the world like you!"
"Ah, sir," cried Portland, much moved, "you ever flattered me."
He was not so reserved as the King nor yet so demonstrative. William could express by word and letter, strong passion, but this was not possible to William Bentinck. Devotion to his master was the motive power of his life, but he could not say so.