We are wont to talk of the even tenour of life, when no such thing exists. No two days are alike, still less are any two years. The “Ships that pass in the night” are variously freighted. Some—these the rarest—are laden with the bright, precious jewels of happiness; some with a cargo of neutral interest; others are carrying the seeds of sorrow to be sowed broadcast over the world. The death of King Edward was felt far beyond the boundaries of this country or even of this Empire. He had earned for himself an affection and influence such as no British monarch had ever before achieved, and when he died the sorrow was literally the people’s sorrow. For some years before his death his health—though this was not generally known—had caused no little anxiety to his doctors. He was subject to violent fits of spasmodic coughing from which it sometimes seemed as if he could scarcely recover. The exertion was terrifying to those who witnessed it, and occasionally he appeared to be choking. This was the reason of his annual trips to Biarritz or some other place blessed with an atmosphere purer than that of the London which he loved. These journeys, which have been ungenerously attributed to the love of pleasure, were really a matter of necessity; they furnished in a mild degree that oxygen which in its pure state is administered to the dying in order to relieve the pain of breathing—the pain from which he so often suffered. In the early days of 1910 the King seemed to outsiders to be much in his usual health; but the doctors were nervous and anxious; they were eager to get him away from London. On the 6th of March he gave a great dinner-party—only men—he was in excellent spirits and after dinner went the round of his guests, as was his wont, and chatted gaily with each of them. As he was leaving the room he stopped for a moment, to talk to me, and spoke with all his natural cheerfulness, like a boy before a holiday, of his journey which was to take place on the morrow. It was not long before the anxiety felt by his doctors was justified. “Only we,” said one of them to me, “know how serious his condition is. If he had been a private individual we should have had him away long ago.” He caught cold in Paris and was very unwell when he arrived at Biarritz. The world at large was not told how ill he was, and the secret was well kept from all those who were not behind the scenes, but for a week he seemed to be wrestling with death; that time he conquered, but the victory was ephemeral. On the 27th of April he came home. He was well enough, or imprudent enough, to go to the Opera, which he never willingly missed, for he was devoted to music.