The Countess tittered.
“Animals love me,” she archly professed. “Birds perch on my breast if only I wave.... The other day a sweet red robin came and stayed for hours...!”
“The Court looks to you to set a high example,” the Queen declared, focusing quizzically a marble shape of Leda green with moss, for whose time-corroded plinth the late Archduchess’ toy-terrier was just then shewing a certain contempt.
The Countess’ long, slightly pulpy fingers strayed nervously towards the rosary at her thigh.
“With your majesty’s consent,” she said, “I propose a campaign to the Island.”
“What? And beard the Count?”
“The salvation of one so fallen, in my estimation should be worth hereafter (at the present rate of exchange, but the values vary) ... a Plenary perpetual-indulgence: I therefore,” the Countess said, with an upward fleeting glance (and doubtless guileless of intention of irony), “feel it my duty to do what I can.”
“I trust you will take a bodyguard when you go to St Helena?”
“And pray tell Count Cabinet from us,” the King looked implacable: “we forbid him to serenade the Court this year! or to throw himself into the Lake again or to make himself a nuisance!”
“He was over early this morning, Willie,” the Queen retailed: “I saw him from a window. Fishing, or feigning to! And with white kid gloves, and a red carnation.”