"Meanwhile the Bill is passed," said Sunderland. "And I have misreckoned on the King."
He took his leave haughtily of the Dutch nobles, and they went after the King. An excited and disturbed crowd filled the galleries and the banqueting hall where the dishes were already on the table and the lords ready to serve.
The King had already left Whitehall in the Duke of Leeds' coach, with no other company but that nobleman.
So completely deceived were the spectators who lined the way from the Palace to the post office in Charing Cross to see the great people drive away from Parliament that they, recognizing the arms and liveries of Leeds (now unpopular by reason of the East India scandals), hooted lustily, with no conception that the King was beside my lord.
Nor did either King or minister care one whit whether the crowd hooted or cheered. Leeds was on the verge of ruin, and knew it, yet thought little about that; he had a peculiar regard for the Queen, a peculiar loyalty towards the King; his thoughts, like his master's, were with that lady whose life meant so much to England.
In half an hour they were at Kensington House; in a few minutes more the King, the Duke's mantle over his white satins and the garter still round his knee, was by Mary's side in the long Queen's gallery.
She was seated close to the fire with Basilea de Marsac and Madame de Nienhuys—very languidly seated, with her hands in her lap and a blue scarf about her shoulders.
Her extravagant joy at the King's coming was piteous to see.
"So soon!" she cried, and her whole face changed. "I thought it could not be till this evening ... but were they not expecting you to dine at Whitehall?"
"No matter for that," he answered breathlessly. "You—you are no worse?"