“Tell me, my lord,” she said, turning to Pembroke, an acknowledged authority in all matters relating to the theater, “who is that sweet chit in the doublet and trunk hose who cannot counterfeit manhood for all her strivings?” “By the bill of the play, your grace, she is called _Rosalind_ and is apparently of the sex of which she is so poor an imitation.” “Pshaw, my lord!” said the Queen contemptuously, “do you think I have neither ears nor eyes? This is a _Rosalind_ that will never be able to grow a beard. She is of my own sex and a sweeter chit I never saw in all my life.” “Far be it from me to gainsay your grace,” said Pembroke with an elaborate air, “but according to the bill of the play I have in my hand this _Rosalind_ is impersonated by a young Italian gentleman, one Signor Arrigo Bandinello by name.” “A young Italian fiddlestick!” said the Queen. “I tell you that girl is as much an Italian gentleman as I am. She shall attend us when the play is at an end. We will go into this matter more fully.” However, when the play was over, it was the author who was first honored with a summons to the royal pavilion. The Queen received him with high good humor. For the time being she had forgotten the personality of _Rosalind_ in the charm and glamour of the play itself. In the graciousness of her mood she paid many compliments to the author of “As You Like It” and was fain to admit “that she liked it very well.” “You are a wonderful man, Master Shakespeare,” said the Queen. “And I think you must be the happiest man alive.” But there was nothing in the face of the player to suggest that destiny. The somber eyes framed a question which the august lady was quick to read and in the expansiveness of her mood was even prepared to answer. “You inhabit an enchanted world, Master Shakespeare. All the persons in it are of your creation. You can order their natures and their destinies exactly as it pleases you.” “Alas, your grace!” The poet shook his head. “Tell me, is it not so?” said the Queen. “The world I inhabit, your grace, is that of human experience. It is neither less nor more than that which we all know. A maker of plays must depict life in its verity, and that is a hard matter and one which tears the soul.” The playwright spoke with the slow precision of one whom has felt in his inmost fibers the long drawn agony of mortal life. The Queen was a little amazed. In such a bearing and in such a speech there was not a trace of that enchanted mind, all airy lightness, all delicate fantasy, which had wrought such ravishment. Nor was there any sign of personal satisfaction in the triumph which had been gained or in the fruits of success which now he was beginning to gather in ample measure. The Queen, being a woman, was a little inclined to be piqued by the aloofness of the dramatist.