The nurse stood over me like a dragon, refusing to let anyone cross the threshold of the sick-room; as a kindly angel she trotted backwards and forwards, telling me some of the names she heard announced. An Ambassador, and several Ministers, Royal Academicians, inventors, authors, Admirals, Generals, actors, and scientists, all came in turn. I shall never really know who all my guests were at that party, for only in a haphazard way have I heard who came and who did not. But it proved that _Hamlet_ without the Dane, or a wedding without the bride, might almost be possible when a party without a hostess can be a “great success.” Such is the comedy and tragedy of life. My guests were told I was suffering from a “little chill,” and, though kindly or politely regretful, they little guessed that their enjoyment was counterbalanced by my agony. Many days passed before I was up again, and then I only crawled to Woodhall Spa. _Crawled_ is a fairly correct expression, for the first time I was able to leave my room was to go to the train, and then a porter trundled me along the platform at King’s Cross in a Bath chair. So lying on my back all the journey, I arrived there a human wreck; but, thanks to Dr. Calthrop, and the efficacy of the waters, the patient found herself on her feet a few weeks later. All praise to Woodhall Spa. A day or two after my arrival even that quiet, sleepy little village was raised to the tiptoe of anxiety when a rumour came that King Edward VII. was dangerously ill. On that Friday night—May 6th, 1910—we tried to telephone to London for the latest bulletin, but no message could be got through; and it was not till the early hours of Saturday morning that the dreaded news which had already spanned the world in a flash, reached the restful retreat of Woodhall Spa, by means of the mail cart. The King was dead. A strong contrast was the little English village, where I learnt the sad tidings, to that wonderfully dramatic scene in the recesses of a Mexican cave, in which news of the death of Queen Victoria was announced to me. All of us in the hotel were wearing coloured clothes, and all with one accord telegraphed home, or to the London shops or dressmakers, for black things to be sent; and rich ladies sallied forth and bought pots of paint to blacken their hats, or bits of ribbon of funereal hue. And those wonderful days following the death of King Edward VII. showed forth not only spontaneous world-wide reverence for the Great Peacemaker, and homage to his dignity and prestige as a monarch; they bore witness to the sorrow of individuals numbered by multitudes and nations—the sob of a grief-stricken Empire that had lost and was mourning a valued friend. CHAPTER XXIX DIAZ