“Socialism at twenty,” said the King, “is only a symptom of the unrest of early adolescence. Even Hubert”—he glanced at the picture—“was touched with it. He accused me, I recall, of being merely an accident, a sort of stumbling-block in the way of advanced thought!”
He smiled faintly. Then he sighed. “And the others?” he asked.
“The outlying districts are quiet. So, too, is the city. Too quiet, sire.”
“They are waiting, of course, for my death,” said the King quietly. “If only, you were twenty years younger than I am, it would be better.” He fixed the General with shrewd eyes. “What do those asses of doctors say about me?”
“With care, sire—”
“Come, now. This is no time for evasion.”
“Even at the best, sire—” He looked very ferocious, and cleared his throat. He was terribly ashamed that his voice was breaking.. “Even at the best, but of course they can only give an opinion—”
“Six months?”
“A year, sire.”
“And at the worst!” said the King, with a grim smile. Then; following his own line of, thought: “But the people love the boy, I think.”