THE VIRGIN THRONED IN THE WEST: A TABLOID TANGLE OF LOVE AND HISTORY. CHAPTER VI. The Virgin Throned in the West: A Tabloid Tangle of Love and History. It was with no little trepidation that I mounted the steps of the summer palace of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, and knocked timidly at the door. Had I not been somewhat dazed by the nature of my mission, I might have noticed an electric bell somewhere around, but who ever heard of a bell on a palace door? That would be in violation of all ethics of the made-to-order novel. I had determined to see nothing but what I wished to see and to brush the dust from my knowledge of royalty—gleaned from the historical novels which tell of everything under the sun except history—so I bridled my patience and gave my imagination a free rein. That’s a hobby of mine. As I closed my eyes and waited with an unuttered prayer that there might be no dungeon beneath this castle wall, I felt a queer sensation in my left side. Twice before I had undergone a similar experience. Once I had called an imperious maiden “my queen” and the lover who is in the background of every girl butted into the foreground and knocked me out of the centre of the stage. The other occasion is too painful to recall and not at all humorous, so I will lose the thread of memory and resume the thread of my discourse. I believe I left myself on the palace portico, with my hands clasped over the hollow place caused by a missing rib, which is the only legacy left by an ancestor who was too fond of stolen pippins. Since then I have become convinced that the ache was owing to an uneasy conscience; but then I thought it was only my heart. Outside the palace I had one kind of heart disease; would I contract the other kind within the walls I had forgotten that it takes two to make a contract and had reckoned without my queen and with an utter disregard of the rules of mathematics. But there are exceptions to rules; why not to rulers? I continued to stand outside the palace. Perhaps you wonder at that, but the reason is simple: the door was closed and, moreover, it was locked. I am no Sherlock Holmes, nor do I smoke, so I couldn’t deduce from the ashes of a cigar how I could get that door between me and the street. There was nothing to do but wait. And wait I did. Somehow, I didn’t mind it, for you see I was waiting on a queen. I had waited on other girls with more impatience and more candied sweetness. Every woman’s idea of a sensible man is one who will make a fool of himself over her and if it pleases her, he doesn’t object to playing court jester. That’s what we men are here for—to prevent women from being bored by the society of their own sex. Finally I was admitted. Just how I seem to have forgotten. Let me recall my lessons in memory-training-by-the-aid-of association: