Word came in the afternoon that Mr. Partridge with his yacht Meteor had won the America Cup at St. Louis. This evening was set for the Masquerade at Devonshire House, and there was to be a torch-light procession of the City Liveries. As to the palace, that was mostly concerned on Coronation eve with matters of apparel, the burnishing of jewels, nervous rehearsals, and feverish attempts at repose.
In the portico, three saddled horses, overcome with heat, mouthed their chained bits, and swished their lazy tails. In the guardroom, midway upon the alabaster stairs, three gentlemen of the guard, Queen's orderlies in waiting, tried not to fall asleep. They had taken off their casques with the lions, but still that ridiculous chain mail was suffocating. They yawned for want of better occupation, talked to keep themselves in a state of decent wakefulness.
"Ho-la," said MacNeill, rolling over in his chair, "I'll grill my other side now. By the bars of Hades I'd be cooler at home." MacNeill was half Spaniard, a banker's son from Venezuela. "Ali," he turned to the Indian prince who lounged by the wall, "you know all about this business to-morrow. What's it like?"
Lazily the Prince lifted his eyes—big, soft, gentle eyes they were.
"My dear MacNeill, what business?"
"Why the Coronation, of course; weren't you crowned when they made you King of Haidar?"
The Prince laughed easily. "It wasn't a crown, we have a green umbrella."
"The ancestral gamp," said MacNeill, irreverently. "Is Haidar so wet? What do they worship—ducks?"
"Allah, el Allah!"
The Prince scarcely breathed the awful name, and his eyes were hard now.