“Get rid of the noise for me. _Quiet them._ Or I’ll be too ill,” the Queen declared, “to leave my room to-night!” “Should I summon Whisky, Marm?” the Countess asked, but before there was time to reply the Court physician, Dr Cuncliffe Babcock was announced. “I feel I’ve had a relapse, Doctor,” her Dreaminess declared. Dr Babcock beamed: he had one blind eye--though this did not prevent him at all from seeing all that was going on with the other. “Leave it to me, Madam,” he assured, “and I shall pick you up in _no_ time!” “Not Johnnie, doctor?” the Queen murmured with a grimace. For a glass of _Johnnie Walker_ at bed-time was the great doctor’s favourite receipt. “No; something a little stronger, I think.” “We need expert attention, too,” the King intervened. “You certainly are somewhat pale, sir.” “Whenever I go out,” the King complained, “I get an impression of raised hats.” It was seldom King William of Pisuerga spoke in the singular tense, and Doctor Babcock looked perturbed. “Raised hats, sir?” he murmured in impressive tones. “Nude heads, doctor.” The Queen commenced to fidget. She disliked that the King should appear more interesting than herself. “These earrings tire me,” she said, “take them out.” But the Prince, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the success of his appearance with the crowd, had already begun tossing the contents of the flower vases into the street. “Willie ... prevent him! Yousef ... I forbid you!” her Dreaminess faintly shrieked. And to stay her son’s despoiling hand she skimmed towards him, when the populace catching sight of her, redoubled their cheers. Meanwhile Mademoiselle de Nazianzi had regained again her composure. A niece of her Gaudiness the Mistress of the Robes (the Duchess of Cavaljos), her recent début at Court, had been made under the brightest conceivable of conditions. Laura Lita Carmen Etoile de Nazianzi was more piquant perhaps than pretty. A dozen tiny moles were scattered about her face, while on either side of her delicate nose, a large grey eye surveyed the world with a pensive critical glance. “Scenes like that make one sob with laughter,” she reflected, turning into the corridor where two of the Maids of Honour, like strutting idols, were passing up and down. “Is she really very ill? Is she _really_ dying?” they breathlessly enquired. Mademoiselle de Nazianzi disengaged herself from their solicitously entwining arms. “She is not!” she answered, in a voice full of eloquent inflections. But beguiled by the sound of marching feet, one of the girls had darted forward towards a window. “Oh Blanche, Blanche, Blanchie love!” she exclaimed, “I could dance to the click of your brother’s spurs.” “You’d not be the first to, dear darling!” Mademoiselle de Lambèse replied, adjusting her short shock of hair before a glass. Mademoiselle de Lambèse believed herself to be a very valuable piece of goods, and seemed to think she had only to smile to stir up an Ocean of passion.