First of all, there, in the corner by the folding doors, was a portrait of his grandfather, in the Coronation robes, and full regalia, which he himself had been compelled to wear, the day before; a strong, bearded man, with a masterful mouth, which was not hidden by his beard. A King. Further along, on the right, past several square yards of books, hanging immediately above the ornate, carved, marble mantelpiece, in the centre of the north wall, was a portrait of his father, in Field Marshal's uniform, with his breast covered with decorations; a man apart, isolated, lonely, remote, with a brooding light in his eyes. A King, too. Then, past more books, in the furthest corner of the room, by the door, came the portrait of his mother, a stately, commanding figure, in a wonderful, ivory satin gown, marvellously painted. A Queen. And a hard woman, hard with her children, and harder still with herself, where what she had held to be a matter of Family duty had been concerned. And, last of all, in the centre of yet more books, on the east wall, behind him, was the portrait of his brother, the dead Prince of Wales, a more human portrait this, to see which, as he sat at the writing table, he had to swing right round in his revolving chair; the Prince, in the pink coat, white cord riding breeches, and top boots, of the hunting field, which had been his favourite recreation, leaning a little forward, it seemed, and smiling out of the canvas with the smile which had won him so much, and such well deserved popularity. All these had borne the Family burden, without complaint. All these had accepted the great responsibility of their position, without question, and even with a certain Royal pride. They had made innumerable, never ending sacrifices. And he? An unwilling King? A half-hearted King? No wonder they disapproved of him! The King swung round, impatiently, in his chair, back to the writing table again. An unwilling King, a half-hearted King, he might be; but, at any rate, he could labour. He could put his full weight into his work. He could show, in his own way, even if it was not the Family way, even if the Family disapproved of him, that he, too, was a man, that he, too, had individuality, force of character, driving power, decision-- Portfolios, and files, of confidential State documents had been arranged, in neat piles, and in a sequence which was a matter of a carefully organized routine, on the left of the writing table. On the right stood a number of shining, black japanned dispatch boxes, and one or two black leather dispatch cases, of the kind carried by the King's Messengers. The "In" boxes for correspondence, in the centre of the table, were filled with a formidable accumulation of letters. The "Out" boxes, beside them, looked, at the moment, in the brilliant, morning sunlight, emptier than emptiness.