The next morning Rebekah, led forward from a semicircle of courtiers by a backing Silver Stick, approached within four feet of the Throne, and after the protracted humiliation of her curtsey, said ruefully: “Our party have failed, my Lord King, to obtain audience for our humble petition till after four days”. “Is that too long?” “We could not wait beyond to-night. Our good Rabbi, and my father's Manager--both must hurry back, and we others with them. This being so, _I_ appeal to Your Lordship's Majesty “. “A _personal_ appeal?” “Yes”--poutingly. “Then, I grant an audience”. “Where?” “Here”. “Who will be here?” “Why--you and I.” “_No_”--very low, with pressed lips. “I am so sorry”, says he: “it is the only chance I shall have; not for long--a few minutes--I am so busy. Otherwise, you will have to stay four days--and your poor father suffering--” She seemed unsure now, and his hands in the uncertainty of that moment were moist like melting ice. “So, then, you accept”, said he: “a little audience--you grant me? Or rather, I grant you”. “When, my Lord King?” “At three--No, what folly! At four. Will you? At four? And here? Say at four”. He spoke leaning keenly forward; and she, with a curtsey of acquiescence, retired. They were near again, and yet far, in the _salle à manger_ at luncheon, a function of a hundred guests at small tables, with more of orchestra than of talk; and even as Hogarth and his train entered, and the crowd rose, she saw his eyes, by some power, prowl and find her. Afterwards there were two hours to wait. Such a heat of haste now possessed them both! Hogarth locked himself from his attendants into his bed-chamber, and, tumbling a chaos of clothes and uniforms upon the carpet, stumbled bitterly among them, hunting for a cravat whose effect he remembered; wished at the mirror that he had no moles and nose-freckles, or that his father had turned him out rather less black; and anon a delicious chill pang of mingled sugar and peppermint would gash his heart at the thought: “_she consented!_” He broke glass, dropped his watch to fragments, hissing “damn the thing!”; and about half-past three the hands of Rebekah, too, in _her_ locked closet, were like the scattering sirocco among powder-boxes brushes, jewel-cases, and toilet-toys. What a hot haste was here! She too much blued her eyes, and bruised the skin in wiping, intense the contest between poudre blanche and poudre Rachel, violette and germandrée, she manoeuvring among mirrors to catch each angle of view, but with a blind impatience; and, if she wanted something, she tripped running, breathless: such a disease of flurry, an eruption and conflagration of haste--for nothing; yet, all the while, with a miserable sub-feeling of the penal creeping of time.