"Here we are! '_Thursday._ His Majesty did me the honour to consult me about the future of his daughter, the Princess Hyacinth. Remained to tea and was very----' I can't quite make this word out." "Let _me_ look," said the King, his rubicund face becoming yet more rubicund. "It looks like 'charming,'" he said casually. "Fancy!" said Belvane. "Fancy my writing that! I put down just what comes into my head at the time, you know." She made a gesture with her hand indicative of some one who puts down just what comes into her head at the time, and returned to her diary. "'Remained to tea, and was very charming. Mused afterwards on the mutability of life!'" She looked up at him with wide-open eyes. "I often muse when I'm alone," she said. The King still hovered over the diary. "Have you any more entries like--like that last one? May I look?" "Oh, your Majesty! I'm afraid it's _quite_ private." She closed the book quickly. "I just thought I saw some poetry," said the King. "Just a little ode to a favourite linnet. It wouldn't interest your Majesty." "I adore poetry," said the King, who had himself written a rhymed couplet which could be said either forwards or backwards, and in the latter position was useful for removing enchantments. According to the eminent historian, Roger Scurvilegs, it had some vogue in Euralia and went like this: "_Bo, boll, bill, bole._ _Wo, woll, will, wole._" A pleasing idea, temperately expressed. The Countess, of course, was only pretending. Really she was longing to read it. "It's quite a little thing," she said. "_Hail to thee, blithe linnet,_ _Bird thou clearly art,_ _That from bush or in it_ _Pourest thy full heart!_ _And leads the feathered choir in song_ _Taking the treble part._" "Beautiful," said the King, and one must agree with him. Many years after, another poet called Shelley plagiarised the idea, but handled it in a more artificial, and, to my way of thinking, decidedly inferior manner. "Was it a real bird?" said the King. "An old favourite." "Was it pleased about it?" "Alas, your Majesty, it died without hearing it." "Poor bird!" said his Majesty; "I think it would have liked it." Meanwhile Hyacinth, innocent of the nearness of a mother, remained on the castle walls and tried to get on with her breakfast. But she made little progress with it. After all, it _is_ annoying continually to look up from your bacon, or whatever it is, and see a foreign monarch passing overhead. Eighteen more times the King of Barodia took Hyacinth in his stride. At the end of the performance, feeling rather giddy, she went down to her father. She found him alone in the library, a foolish smile upon his face, but no sign of a letter to Barodia in front of him. "Have you sent the Note yet?" she asked.