"You do not choose your ladies in waiting with discretion. Mrs. Oswald Carey has a husband whose existence shows at once the absurdity of your disagreeable and unfilial suspicion. I have no purpose, Henrietta, to take another consort." The King wiped his eyes with a gentle melancholy. "And you will send her away, will you not, father? I do not wish to be disrespectful, but I cannot endure her presence." "Send who away?" "Mrs. Oswald Carey." "She amuses me, child. Her great beauty is delightful to gaze at." King George put a lozenge into his mouth and sighed reflectively. He was a victim to asthma. The east winds of Boston cut him to the bone. "Do not compel me, your Majesty, to be more explicit. I repeat, either this woman or I must leave your court." The late ruler of England wrung his hands. "I see you are resolved to drive me to distraction. This is the final stroke. My daughter wishes to desert me. Lear," he added, piteously, "was only a touch to me. You are Goneril and Regan combined in one." He scowled angrily at her. Just then the door was opened, and a gentleman of the bedchamber announced that dinner was served. "Is the court in waiting?" "Yes, your Majesty." "This is my birthday," observed the King, moodily. "So it is," cried Henrietta; "how remiss of me not to have spoken of it." But her father paid no attention to her words. He was fumbling in his pocket. "How many will there be at table?" he inquired of the equerry. "Fourteen, Sire." "Humph! Lady Constance Percy and Lady Rosamond Temple do not drink champagne. Neither does Paran Paget. Lord Gladstone Churchill swore off yesterday." He spoke as if soliloquizing, and went through a process of calculation on the fingers of one hand. He handed a key to his retainer. "Tell the Lord Chamberlain to have two quarts and one pint," he said. "And Lady Muriel Howard is on no consideration to have more than a single glass. Come, Henrietta."