“I suppose you feel too high and mighty to speak to a fellow,” he said. “I don't believe you'll ever get over it, Marie-Celeste.”
“Well, we have had a magnificent day”—allowing herself to be detained for a moment, notwithstanding her eagerness to rush straight to the bosom of her family—“we spent the whole afternoon with the Oueen's mother.”
“The Oueen's mother! Marie-Celeste, she's been dead ever so many years.”
“Who was she, then?” almost angrily; “she was an old lady.”
“The Queen herself, of course.”
“The Oueen an old lady?”
“Why not? She has a host of grandchildren.”
“But she wore no crown, Harold.”
“Oh, you goosey, of course not! She does not put her crown on once in an age. Who told you she was the Queen's mother?”
“Only Albert, Harold;” and then realizing at a bound Albert's positive genius for jumping to wrong conclusions, Marie-Celeste leaned against the door from very weakness.