"My lord," he said, with much warmth and kindness, "even if I should never see you again—I should never forget ’88." Shrewsbury seized the frail hand, kissed it with tears, and went violently from the room. William gave a little sigh, pushed back his chair, and put his hand to his head, coughing. He was not long alone. Sunderland entered the little cabinet with his cautious light step and an expression that had a little lost its usual composure. "The little Duke hath resigned," said the King laconically. A rare ejaculation of impatience and contempt broke from the Lord Chamberlain. "Every one falleth away!" he exclaimed. "There goeth the last link with the Whigs!" William gave a short laugh. "I suppose that you will be the next, my lord?" he said shrewdly. The Earl went rather pale. "I will hold office as long as I can, Your Majesty," he answered. "But it is a hard thing to maintain my position in the face of all England. But whether I am in office or no, I shall, sir, always serve you." The King lifted his dark eyes. "I believe you will, my lord," he said simply; "we are old allies now. Well—we have not either of us much more to do—the people have their peace, and we have our positions, and may grow roses, and build villas, and wait for death." CHAPTER X THE BROKEN FRIENDSHIP The Earl of Portland, newly returned from his gorgeous embassy to France, sat in his apartments at Kensington reading and re-reading a letter. It was written in a large and flowing hand, unequal in parts, as if the writer had been greatly agitated. The contents, which the Earl had now almost by heart, were strange and sad. "KENSINGTON, _April_ 1699. "Since I cannot dispute with you, I will say nothing to you on the subject of your retirement; but I cannot refrain from telling you of my extreme sorrow, which is far deeper than you can ever imagine, and assures me that if you felt even the half you would very quickly change your resolution—which may it please the good God to inspire you to do for your own good and my repose. At least I hope that you will not refuse to keep the key of office, for I am content that it should not oblige you to anything, and, besides, I entreat you to let me see you as often as you can, which would be a great consolation to me in the affliction which you have caused me, which cannot prevent me from loving you ever tenderly." It was written in French and signed with the letter ’G,’ which had always been affixed to this long, intimate correspondence which had continued now for thirty-three years—since they had been children—continued through war and peace, trouble, disaster, illness, bereavement, disappointment without cloud or shadow—and this was the end. William Bentinck had resolved to resign the King’s service.