“His horrible soapy smile! His servile, insinuating manner! It makes you feel as if he were plotting your assassination,” she declared. “His voice—ugh! It’s exactly like lukewarm oil. He makes my flesh creep, like some frightful, bloated reptile.” “There was a Queen in Thule,” hummed Florimond, “who had a marvellous command of invective. ’Eaving help your reputation, if you fell under her illustrious displeasure.” “I don’t see why you make fun of me. I’m sure you think as I do—that he’s a monster of low cunning, and cynicism, and craft, and treachery, and everything that’s vile and revolting. Don’t you?” the Queen demanded. “To be sure I do, ma’am. I think he’s a bold, bad, dreadful person. I lie awake half the night, counting up his iniquities in my mind. And if just now I laughed, it was only to keep from crying.” “This sort of talk is all very well,” put in the King; “but the fact remains that Tsargradev is the master of Monterosso. He could do any one of us an evil turn at any moment. He could cut down our Civil List to-morrow, or even send us packing, and establish republic. We’re dependent for everything upon his pleasure. I think, really, my dear, you ought to try to be decent to him—if only for prudence’ sake.” “Decent to him!” echoed her Majesty. “I like that! As if I didn’t treat him a hundred million times better than he deserves! I hope he can’t complain that I’m not decent to him.” “You’re not exactly effusive, do you think? I don’t mean that you stick your tongue out at him, or throw things at his head. But trust him for understanding. It’s what you leave unsaid and undone, rather than what you say or do. He’s fully conscious of the sort of place he occupies in your esteem, and he resents it. He thinks you distrust him, suspect him, look down upon him....” “Well, and so I do,” interrupted the Queen. “And so do you. And so does everybody who has any right feeling.” “Yes; but those of us who are wise in our generation keep our private sentiments regarding him under lock and key. We remember his power, and treat him respectfully to his face, however much we may despise him in secret. What’s the use of quarrelling with our bread and butter? We should seek to propitiate him, to rub him the right way.” “Then you would actually like me to grovel, to toady, to a disgusting little low-born, black-hearted cad like Tsargradev!” cried the Queen, with scorn. “Oh, dear me, no,” protested her husband. “But there’s a vast difference between toadying, and being a little tactful, a little diplomatic. I should like you to treat him with something more than bare civility.” “Well, what can I do that I don’t do?” “You never ask him to any but your general public functions, your State receptions, and that sort of thing. Why don’t you admit him to your private circle sometimes? Why don’t you invite him to your private parties, your dinners?”