“I trust there will be no contretemps,” she murmured, glancing uneasily towards the Queen of the Land of Dates, who seemed to be lost in admiration of the Royal dinner-service of scarlet plates, that looked like pools of blood upon the cloth.
“What pleases me in your land,” she was expansively telling her host, “is less your food, than the china you serve it on; for with us you know there’s none. And now,” she added, marvellously wafting a fork, “I’m for ever spoilt for shells.”
King William was incredulous.
“With you no china?” he gasped.
“None, Sir, none!”
“I could not be more astonished,” the king declared, “if you told me there were fleas at the Ritz,” a part of which assertion Lady Something, who was blandly listening, imperfectly chanced to hear.
“Who would credit it!” she breathed, turning to an attaché, a young man all white and pensieroso, at her elbow.
“Credit what?”
“Did you not hear what the dear king said!”
“No.”