“Am I right, Madam, in assuming it’s Bananas?...” the Countess queried.
But at that moment the door opened, and his Weariness the Prince entered the room in all his tinted Orders.
Handsome to tears, his face, even as a child had lacked innocence. His was of that magnolia order of colouring, set off by pleasantly untamed eyes, and teeth like flawless pearls.
“You’ve seen them? What are they like.... Tell Mother, darling?” the Queen exclaimed.
“They’re merely dreadful,” his Weariness, who had been to the railway-station to welcome the Royal travellers, murmured in a voice extinct with boredom.
“They’re in European dress, dear?” his mother questioned.
“The King had on a frock coat and a cap....”
“And she?”
“A tartan-skirt, and checked wool-stockings.”
“She has great individuality, so I hear, marm,” the Countess ventured.