“No, it’s me,—Essex. Can you see me?”
“Faith, I can’t,” says the Queen. “Hould on till I draw the bed-curtains. Come in now,” says she, “and say your say, for I can’t have you stoppin’ long—you young Lutharian.”
“Bedad, yer Majesty,” says Essex, droppin’ on his knees before her (the delutherer he was), “small blame to me if I am a Lutharian, for you have a face on you that would charm a bird off a bush.”
“Hould your tongue, you young reprobate,” says the Queen, blushin’ up to her curl-papers wid delight, “and tell me what improvements you med in Ireland.”
“Faith, I taught manners to O’Neil,” cries Essex.
“He had a bad masther then,” says Elizabeth, lookin’ at his dirty boots; “couldn’t you wipe yer feet before ye desthroyed me carpets, young man?”
“Oh, now,” says Essex, “is it wastin’ me time shufflin’ about on a mat you’d have me, when I might be gazin’ on the loveliest faymale the world ever saw.”
“Well,” says the Queen, “I’ll forgive you this time, as you’ve been so long away, but remimber in future that Kidderminster isn’t oilcloth. Tell me,” says she, “is Westland Row Station finished yet?”
“There’s a side wall or two wanted yet, I believe,” says Essex.
“What about the Loop Line?” says she.