A shudder seized him.
“No, nothing can possibly shake me,” he murmured again.
With a detached, cold face, the Queen paused to inhale a rose.
(Oh you gardens of Palaces...! How often have you witnessed agitation and disappointment? You smooth, adorned paths...! How often have you known the extremes of care...?)
“It would be better to do away I think next year with that bed of cinerarias altogether,” the Queen of Pisuerga remarked, “since persons won’t go round it.”
Traversing the flower plat now, with the air of a black-beetle with a purpose, was the Countess Yvorra.
“We had supposed you higher-principled, Countess,” her sovereign admonished.
The Countess slightly flushed.
“I’m looking for groundsel for my birds, Sire,” she said—“for my little dickies!”
“We understand your boudoir is a sort of menagerie,” His Majesty affirmed.