KING. The first duty of a royal consort being to be _good_, the test of goodness will now be applied by the Lord Mayor. Every competitor who does not pass in goodness will be made short work of. (_Several ladies quake, and somewhere or other unseen_ CINDERELLA _is chuckling_.) ONE OF THE STEEDS. I wasn’t told about this. It isn’t fair. LORD MAYOR (_darkly_). If your Grace wishes to withdraw— (_She stamps._) KING. The Lord Mayor will now apply the test. LORD MAYOR (_to a gold page_). The therm-mo-ometers, boy! (_A whole boxful of thermometers is presented to him by the page on bended knee. The_ LORD MAYOR _is now in his element. He has ridden in gold coaches and knows what hussies young women often are. To dainty music he trips up the line of beauties and pops a tube into each pouting mouth. The competitors circle around, showing their paces while he stands, watch in hand, giving them two minutes. Then airily he withdraws the tubes; he is openly gleeful when he finds sinners. Twice he is in doubt, it is a very near thing, and he has to consult the_ KING _in whispers: the_ KING _takes the_ QUEEN _aside, to whisper behind the door as it were; then they both look at_ LORD TIMES, _who, without even stepping forward, says ‘No’—and the doubtfuls are at once bundled out of the chamber with the certainties. Royalty sighs, and the courtiers sigh and the_ LORD MAYOR _sighs in a perfunctory way, but there is a tossing of manes from the beauties who have scraped through_.) KING (_stirring up the_ PRINCE, _who has fallen asleep_). Our Royal Bud will now graciously deign to pick out a few possibles. (_His Royal Highness yawns._) LORD MAYOR (_obsequiously_). If your Highness would like a little assistance— PRINCE (_you never know how they will take things_). We shall do this for ourselves, my good fellow. (_He smacks the_ LORD MAYOR’S _face with princely elegance. The_ LORD MAYOR _takes it as a favour, and the courtiers gently smack each other’s faces and are very proud to be there. The_ PRINCE _moves languidly down the line of beauties considering their points, occasionally nodding approval but more often screwing up his nose. The courtiers stand ready with nods or noses. Several ladies think they have been chosen, but he has only brought them into prominence to humiliate them; he suddenly says ‘Good-bye,’ and they have to go, while he is convulsed with merriment. He looks sharply at the courtiers to see if they are convulsed also, and they are. The others are flung out._) QUEEN (_hanging on to her strap_). Does our Royal one experience no palpitation at all? PRINCE (_sleepily_). Ah me, ah me! LORD TIMES (_irritated_). You’re well called ’Ard-to-Please. You would turn up your nose at a lady though she were shaped like Apollo’s bow.