The King swung round, impatiently, in his chair, back to the writing table again.
An unwilling King, a half-hearted King, he might be; but, at any rate, he could labour. He could put his full weight into his work. He could show, in his own way, even if it was not the Family way, even if the Family disapproved of him, that he, too, was a man, that he, too, had individuality, force of character, driving power, decision—
Portfolios, and files, of confidential State documents had been arranged, in neat piles, and in a sequence which was a matter of a carefully organized routine, on the left of the writing table. On the right stood a number of shining, black japanned dispatch boxes, and one or two black leather dispatch cases, of the kind carried by the King's Messengers. The "In" boxes for correspondence, in the centre of the table, were filled with a formidable accumulation of letters. The "Out" boxes, beside them, looked, at the moment, in the brilliant, morning sunlight, emptier than emptiness.
An almost bewildering array of labour saving devices, stamping, sealing, and filing machines, completed the furnishing of the table. These, the King swept, at once, contemptuously to one side. The telephone instrument, which stood on a special shelf at his elbow, was the only labour saving device he ever used. A plain, and rather shabby fountain pen, and two or three stumps of coloured pencil, were the instruments with which he did his work. It was not until he had found these favourite weapons of attack, and placed them ready to his hand, on his right, that he set himself to deal with the accumulation of papers in front of him.
The letters in the "In" boxes were his first concern. These he had merely to approve, by transferring them to the "Out" boxes, ready for posting. It was a transfer which he could safely have made, which he very often did make, without reading a single letter. His personal correspondence was in the capable hands of Lord Blaine, who had served his father, as private secretary, for many years before him. But this morning, in his new determination to find an outlet for his own individuality, the King elected to read each of the letters through carefully. Lord Blaine had acquired a happy tact, in the course of his long experience, in answering the letters, from all sorts and conditions of people, which found their way into the Royal post bags, which was commonly considered beyond criticism.
None the less, now, as he read the letters, a conviction grew upon the King that not a few of the courtly old nobleman's phrases had become altogether stereotyped.
One letter, in particular, addressed to some humble old woman, in a provincial almshouse, congratulating her on her attainment of a centenary birthday, seemed to him far too formal. The old woman had written a quaint, and wonderfully clear letter, in her own handwriting to the King. Seizing his favourite stump of blue pencil, he added, on the spur of the moment, two or three unconventional sentences of his own, to Lord Blaine's colourless reply—
"I am writing this myself. I don't write as well as you do, do I? But I thought you might like to have my autograph as one of your hundredth birthday presents. This is how I write it—
"Alfred. R.I."
Laughing softly to himself the King tossed the letter, thus amended, into one of the "Out" boxes.
The little incident served to revive his previous good spirits.