Handsome to tears, his face, even as a child had lacked innocence. His was of that _magnolia_ order of colouring, set off by pleasantly untamed eyes, and teeth like flawless pearls. “You’ve seen them? What are they like.... Tell Mother, darling?” the Queen exclaimed. “They’re merely dreadful,” his Weariness, who had been to the railway-station to welcome the Royal travellers, murmured in a voice extinct with boredom. “They’re in European dress, dear?” his mother questioned. “The King had on a frock coat and a cap....” “And she?” “A tartan-skirt, and checked wool-stockings.” “She has great individuality, so I hear, marm,” the Countess ventured. “Individuality be ----! No one can doubt she’s a terrible woman.” The Queen gently groaned. “I see life to-day,” she declared, “in the colour of mould.” The Prince protruded a shade the purple violet of his tongue. “Well, it’s depressing,” he said, “for us all, with the Castle full of blacks.” “That is the least of my worries,” the Queen observed. “Oh, Yousef, Yousef,” she added, “do you wish to break my heart?” The young man protruded some few degrees further his tongue. “I gather you’re alluding to Laura!” he remarked. “But what can you _see_ in her?” his mother mourned. “She suits my feelings,” the Prince simply said. “Peuh!” “She meets my needs.” “She’s so housemaid.... I hardly know...!” the Queen raised beautiful hands bewildered. “Très gutter, ma’am,” the Countess murmured dropping her voice to a half-whisper. “She saves us from _cliché_,” the Prince indignantly said. “She saves us from nothing,” his mother returned. “Oh, Yousef, Yousef. And what _cerné_ eyes, my son. I suppose you were gambling all night at the Château des Fleurs?” “Just hark to the crowds!” the Prince evasively said. And never too weary to receive an ovation, he skipped across the room towards the nearest window, where he began blowing kisses to the throng. “Give them the Smile Extending, darling,” his mother beseeched. “Won’t you rise and place your arm about him, Madam,” the Countess suggested. “I’m not feeling at all up to the mark,” her Dreaminess demurred, passing her fingers over her hair. “There is sunshine, ma’am ... and you have your _anemones_ on ...” the Countess cajoled, “and to please the people, you ought indeed to squeeze him.” And she was begging and persuading the Queen to rise, as the King entered the room preceded by a shapely page (of sixteen) with cheeks fresher than milk. “Go to the window, Willie,” the Queen exhorted her Consort fixing an eye on the last trouser button that adorned his long, straggling legs. The King, who had the air of a tired pastry-cook, sat down. “We feel,” he said, “to-day, we’ve had our fill of stares!” “One little bow, Willie,” the Queen entreated, “that wouldn’t kill you.” “We’d give perfect worlds,” the King went on, “to go, by Ourselves, to bed.”