He folded the letter, put it into his pocket, glanced at the brass bracket-clock in one corner of the room, and went, for the last time, to accompany the King on his way to the Cabinet meeting at Whitehall, which William had summoned with the desperate intention of urging his ministers to try some expedient with the Parliament to enable him to keep the Dutch Guards. Portland descended heavily into the courtyard where the coaches waited. It was a sunny afternoon, and half the soft-coloured brick of the Palace was in a tender light. Some pigeons were gathered round the clock, which was on the point of striking four. Monsieur Zulestein was there, Sunderland, Devonshire, and Monsieur Auverquerque. Portland kept apart from all of them, and drew the point of his cane up and down the cobbles; his eyes were fixed on the door which led to the staircase to the King’s apartments. As the clock struck the hour William appeared in this doorway, and paused at the head of the steps and looked round the courtyard with narrowed eyes. He wore black and a star, his hollow cheeks were flushed—unusual for him—and he was breathing with obvious difficulty. He saw Portland, and his whole face changed; he smiled, and his eyes widened with an indescribable look. Portland met that glance, and a quick pang gripped his heart; he remembered days of long ago, in camp and cabinet, a frail young man facing the French outside Utrecht, speaking to the Senate at The Hague, firing the people, encouraging a fainting country, leading the mad charge at St. Nelf, fainting over his work during tedious days and nights.... Portland made a step forward; then he saw, behind the King, the ardent, youthful face of my Lord Albemarle, and he fell back. William slowly descended the steps. The lackeys opened the coach door, and the gentleman came round. The King looked to Portland, who still stood apart. "Will you accompany me, my lord?" he said gently. The seat in his coach was an honour to which his brother-in-law, Prince George, had aspired in vain. Of late Portland had frequently refused it, and in terms so curt as to excite the horror of those who heard. Now the King was making a last appeal—his brilliant eyes, his moved voice were reminding William Bentinck of his letter and of the long friendship which the ’G’ that signed it was a symbol of. There fell the slightest pause; then Portland answered with a harshness that would have been discourteous to an equal— "I pray you excuse me. I keep my own company to-day." At this, which was little less than a public insult, the King flushed a dark red, and those about him knew not where to look. "My Lord Sunderland," commanded William, "you will accompany us." He entered the coach, the Lord Chamberlain followed, and Portland, very white but unshaken, mounted his own vehicle.