“It’s about going to Dresden. I—I want to assure you that I dislike the notion of going quite as much as you can. But it’s no question of choice. There are certain things one has to do, whether one will or not. I’m exceedingly sorry to have to insist, but we positively must reconcile ourselves to the sacrifice, and attend the wedding—both of us. It’s a necessity of our position. If we should stay away, it would be a breach of international good manners that people would never forgive us. We should be the scandal, the by-word, of the Courts of Europe. We’d give the direst offence in twenty different quarters. We really can’t afford to make enemies of half the royal families of the civilised world. You can’t imagine the unpleasantnesses, the complications, our absence would store up for us; the bad blood it would cause. We’d be put in the black list of our order, and snubbed, and embarrassed, and practically ostracised, for years to come. And you know whether we need friends. But the case is so obvious, it seems a waste of breath to argue it. You surely won’t let a mere little matter of temporary personal inconvenience get us into such an ocean of hot water. Come now—be reasonable, and say you will go.” The Queen’s eyes were burning; her under-lip had swollen portentously; but she did not speak. The King waited a moment. Then, “Come, Anéli—don’t be angry. Answer me. Say that you will go,” he urged, taking her hand. She snatched her hand away. I’m afraid she stamped her foot. “No!” she cried. “Let me alone. I tell you I won’t.” “But, my dear....” the King was re-commencing.... “No, no, no! And you needn’t call me your dear. If you had the least love for me, the least common kindness, or consideration for my health or comfort or happiness, you’d never dream of proposing such a thing. To drag me half-way across the Continent of Europe, to be all but killed at the end of the journey by a pack of horrid, coarse, beer-drinking Germans! And tired out, and irritated, and patronised, and humiliated by people like ————— and ————! It’s perfectly heartless of you. And I—when I suggest such a simple natural pleasure as a trip to Paris, or to the Italian lakes in autumn—you tell me we can’t afford it! You’re ready to spend thousands on a stupid, utterly unnecessary and futile absurdity, like this wedding, but you can’t afford to take me to the Italian lakes! And yet you pretend to love me! Oh, its awful, awful, awful!” And her voice failed her in a sob; and she hid her face in her hands, and wept. So the King had to drop the subject again, and to devote his talents to the task of drying her tears.