"And at the King," she said proudly. "There is no end to the spite of these people. Heard you also that Sir John Dalrymple must go for the Glencoe affair?" "If the Parliament had their way, it would be his head and not his place he lost." "It seemeth to have been a cruel thing," said Mary, "if it is true? But I am sorry for the Duke of Leeds (Danby he always is to me) for he has been a faithful servant." "The King would like to employ Sunderland, who lieth quiet at Althorp," said Portland, with some bitterness. "A villain if there ever was one!" Mary glanced at him anxiously. "The King doth not love Sunderland," she said, "but might find him useful." "Will he persuade His Majesty to pass the Triennial Bill?" asked Lady Temple. "No man can do that," answered the Queen. "If any could have done it, it would have been your lord, a year ago—but nothing will move the King once his mind is resolved." She laughed, and added, "You both have known him longer than I have—tell me if you ever knew him change his decision?" "Never," said Portland. "When he was a child he was immovable." "Sir William hath wasted eloquence on him more than once," smiled Lady Temple. The sun had suddenly gone in, and a greyness overspread the gardens. "Let us go in," said Mary. They entered the Palace by the private door that led to the King’s apartments. Portland prepared to leave for Whitehall, where His Majesty stayed to open the Parliament, and the two ladies went to the Queen’s great gallery, that was fine and beautifully furnished, though but ill heated by the one fireplace where the pine logs blazed. They joined the little company gathered about the fire and protected by tall lacquer and silk screens. Mary took off her furs and drew close to the flames. She was shivering violently. "The room is too large," she said, "but a noble apartment, is it not?" She had taken great pride in furnishing Hampton Court and Kensington House, and in introducing and making fashionable the arts and crafts of Holland—the pottery, the brass-ware, the painted wood, and wrought silver. The ladies answered in eager praises. The Queen’s modest court now consisted of a set of gentle ladies, Dutch and English, who were her constant companions; their piety, their charity, their blameless lives, their industry with the needle, made them utterly different to the ladies of the two last reigns, and set an example which had made soberness fashionable, at least in many homes; for Mary had won England as, many years before, she had won her husband, and was now nearly as beloved in London as at The Hague—at least among the common people. One fashion she set was a rage through the country—this was the collecting of strange and monstrous pieces of old china.