“And can handle a horse as few others can!” Prince Yousef closed his eyes. He had not forgotten how as an undergraduate in England he had come upon the princess once while out with the hounds. And it was only by a consummate effort that he was able to efface the sinister impression she had made--her lank hair falling beneath a man’s felt-hat, her habit skirt torn to tatters, her full cheeks smeared in blood; the blood, so it seemed, of her “first” fox. A shudder seized him. “No, nothing can possibly shake me,” he murmured again. With a detached, cold face, the Queen paused to inhale a rose. (Oh you gardens of Palaces...! How often have you witnessed agitation and disappointment? You smooth, adorned paths...! How often have you known the extremes of care ...?) “It would be better to do away I think next year with that bed of cinerarias altogether,” the Queen of Pisuerga remarked, “since persons won’t go round it.” Traversing the flower plat now, with the air of a black-beetle with a purpose, was the Countess Yvorra. “We had supposed you higher-principled, Countess,” her sovereign admonished. The Countess slightly flushed. “I’m looking for groundsel for my birds, Sire,” she said--“for my little dickies!” “We understand your boudoir is a sort of menagerie,” His Majesty affirmed. The Countess tittered. “Animals love me,” she archly professed. “Birds perch on my breast if only I wave.... The other day a sweet red robin came and stayed for hours...!” “The Court looks to you to set a high example,” the Queen declared, focusing quizzically a marble shape of Leda green with moss, for whose time-corroded plinth the late Archduchess’ toy-terrier was just then shewing a certain contempt. The Countess’ long, slightly pulpy fingers strayed nervously towards the rosary at her thigh. “With your majesty’s consent,” she said, “I propose a campaign to the Island.” “What? And beard the Count?” “The salvation of one so fallen, in my estimation should be worth hereafter (at the present rate of exchange, but the values vary) ... a Plenary perpetual-indulgence: I therefore,” the Countess said, with an upward fleeting glance (and doubtless guileless of intention of irony), “feel it my _duty_ to do what I can.” “I trust you will take a bodyguard when you go to St Helena?” “And pray tell Count Cabinet from us,” the King looked implacable: “we forbid him to serenade the Court this year! or to throw himself into the Lake again or to make himself a nuisance!” “He was over early this morning, Willie,” the Queen retailed: “I saw him from a window. Fishing, or feigning to! And with white kid gloves, and a red carnation.” “Let us catch him stepping ashore!” the King displayed displeasure. “And as usual the same mignon youth had the charge of the tiller.” “I could tell a singular story of that young man,” the Countess said: “for he was once a choir-boy at the Blue Jesus. But, perhaps, I would do better to spare your ears....”