of the romances written by the Poet Shakespeare, who they
had been informed by her was so unsurpassed as a story-teller.

Now Edna was undoubtedly well versed in the Literature of her native
land. She could not only have given with tolerable accuracy the names
and dates of the principal authors of each century, but a list of their
best-known works, and an estimate of the rank assigned to them by modern
criticism. She had even, impelled by an almost morbid conscientiousness,
consulted the works themselves, and could honestly assert that she had
read every single play of Shakespeare's all through, though her private
preference was for a more advanced and psychological form of drama.

And yet on this occasion she chose to parry the Baroness's very
reasonable request. "Shakespeare," she said, in her most superior tone,
"did not write romances. He wrote _plays_."

"Will your Royal Highness please," said the Baroness, "to tell us about
one of _them_?"

For the life of her Edna could not just then summon up a clear
recollection of the plot of any Shakespearian comedy or tragedy--and it
is quite possible that there are many persons as highly educated as she
who might be equally at a loss.

"With so prolific a writer as Shakespeare," she hedged, "it is difficult
to single out any particular play."

She was so plainly embarrassed that Daphne felt impelled to come to the
rescue.

"I think, Ma'am," she said, "they would like the story of _The Merchant
of Venice_!"

"I should hardly call it suitable myself to such an audience as this,"
replied Edna, who was possibly confusing it with _Othello_. "No, Miss
Heritage, I really think something less--less objectionable would
be--There's _As you like it_, now, _quite_ a pleasant play. I think I
can remember the outline of _that_. Let me see. Yes, it's about a girl
called "Rosalind," who dressed up as a boy and ran away into a forest,
where she met Ferdinand--or was it Bassanio?--anyway, the name is of no
consequence. Well, and he carved her name on all the trees, and so they
fell in love, and in the end they were married, you know."

As drama this appeared to strike the ladies-in-waiting as lacking in
incident, and the Baroness von Haulemaennerschen openly declared that an
ancestress of hers who also ran away into a forest had the far more
exciting experience of being poisoned by a jealous Queen and enclosed by
dwarfs in a glass coffin.

"Oh, very well!" said Edna; "if you are