“There is sunshine, ma’am ... and you have your anemones on ...” the Countess cajoled, “and to please the people, you ought indeed to squeeze him.” And she was begging and persuading the Queen to rise, as the King entered the room preceded by a shapely page (of sixteen) with cheeks fresher than milk.
“Go to the window, Willie,” the Queen exhorted her Consort fixing an eye on the last trouser button that adorned his long, straggling legs.
The King, who had the air of a tired pastry-cook, sat down.
“We feel,” he said, “to-day, we’ve had our fill of stares!”
“One little bow, Willie,” the Queen entreated, “that wouldn’t kill you.”
“We’d give perfect worlds,” the King went on, “to go, by Ourselves, to bed.”
“Get rid of the noise for me. Quiet them. Or I’ll be too ill,” the Queen declared, “to leave my room to-night!”
“Should I summon Whisky, Marm?” the Countess asked, but before there was time to reply the Court physician, Dr Cuncliffe Babcock was announced.
“I feel I’ve had a relapse, Doctor,” her Dreaminess declared.
Dr Babcock beamed: he had one blind eye—though this did not prevent him at all from seeing all that was going on with the other.