But the Princess Royal could not conceal her disgust when her final extract, which was to the effect that: "during the closing decade of the Nineteenth Century England became once more a 'nest of singing birds,' as was apparent from the stream of fresh and melodious strains issuing from, among other sources, 'The Bodley Head,'" was greeted with a ripple of girlish laughter from her hearers. It seemed that this incontrovertible statement of fact had somehow aroused reminiscences of another head which, if fresh, had not been precisely melodious on the luncheon board after the Coronation. Princess Edna waited with cold dignity until the last giggle was no longer audible before announcing that she was willing to answer any questions they might wish to ask her. Upon which Baroness Kluge von Bauerngrosstochterheimer begged that they might be favoured with the outline of one of the romances written by the Poet Shakespeare, who they had been informed by her was so unsurpassed as a story-teller. Now Edna was undoubtedly well versed in the Literature of her native land. She could not only have given with tolerable accuracy the names and dates of the principal authors of each century, but a list of their best-known works, and an estimate of the rank assigned to them by modern criticism. She had even, impelled by an almost morbid conscientiousness, consulted the works themselves, and could honestly assert that she had read every single play of Shakespeare's all through, though her private preference was for a more advanced and psychological form of drama. And yet on this occasion she chose to parry the Baroness's very reasonable request. "Shakespeare," she said, in her most superior tone, "did not write romances. He wrote _plays_." "Will your Royal Highness please," said the Baroness, "to tell us about one of _them_?" For the life of her Edna could not just then summon up a clear recollection of the plot of any Shakespearian comedy or tragedy--and it is quite possible that there are many persons as highly educated as she who might be equally at a loss. "With so prolific a writer as Shakespeare," she hedged, "it is difficult to single out any particular play." She was so plainly embarrassed that Daphne felt impelled to come to the rescue. "I think, Ma'am," she said, "they would like the story of _The Merchant of Venice_!" "I should hardly call it suitable myself to such an audience as this," replied Edna, who was possibly confusing it with _Othello_. "No, Miss Heritage, I really think something less--less objectionable would be--There's _As you like it_, now, _quite_ a pleasant play. I think I can remember the outline of _that_. Let me see. Yes, it's about a girl called "Rosalind," who dressed up as a boy and ran away into a forest, where she met Ferdinand--or was it Bassanio?--anyway, the name is of no consequence. Well, and he carved her name on all the trees, and so they fell in love, and in the end they were married, you know."