Lord Dorset strolled to the window and looked out on the great park spreading to the horizon. He, in common with every other Englishman, found both house and grounds an ill substitute for Whitehall, where the King would never go when not forced, spending his time at Hampton Court, Holland House, or here, in this half-built villa, still disfigured with the scaffolding poles of the alterations Mr. Wren was putting in hand. Lord Dorset sighed; he was a tolerant, sweet-natured man, more interested in art than politics; he had been magnificent as Lord Buckhurst, and was more magnificent as Marquess and holder of the office of Lord Chamberlain. Presently the Lords Shrewsbury and Nottingham came out of the King’s Cabinet; the first looked downcast, the second sour. Dorset lifted his eyebrows at Shrewsbury, who said dolefully as he passed— "Good God! we are like to get on the rocks—nothing is right." When the two Secretaries of State had passed, Lord Dorset remarked to his young companion, with a kind of good-natured softness— "You see—I have brought you to Court in an ill time; perchance I had best not press for an audience to-day——" But even as he spoke the door of the Cabinet opened and the King came out. He stood for a second in the doorway, looking at the few gentlemen standing about the bare, large room; then his glance fell on Lord Dorset, who moved forward with his splendid air of grace. "Is it the wrong moment to present to the notice of Your Majesty the young poet of whom I spoke yesterday?" The King’s large open eyes turned to the pale and agitated young man in question, who instantly went on his knees. "A poet?" repeated William; the word to him conveyed a mild, but scarcely harmless madness. He thought the patronage of these people an irritating trait in his Lord Chamberlain. "Have we not already poets in our Court?" Lord Dorset smiled. "This poet, sir, is also a very good Protestant, and one who did much service in writing of satires——" "We have always uses for a clever pen," said William, in whose own country the printing press was a powerful political engine. He turned gravely to the young man— "What is your name?" "Matthew Prior, Your Majesty." "You wish a post about the Court, Mr. Prior?" The aspirant lifted sincere and ardent eyes. "I have desired all my life to serve Your Majesty," he answered, which was true enough, for he cherished an almost romantical admiration for William. "My Lord Dorset," said the King, "is a fine guarantee for any man; we will find some place for you——" He cut short protestations of gratitude by saying, "You must not expect us to read your poems, Mr. Prior." "Your Majesty was ever severe on that art," smiled Lord Dorset.