Claremont. There old Mrs. Louis, who,
years ago, had waited on her Cousin Charlotte, petted her to her heart's
content; and her uncle himself was wonderfully kind to her, talking to
her seriously and gently, almost as if she were a grown-up person. She
and Feodora invariably wept when the too-short visit was over, and they
were obliged to return to the dutiful monotony, and the affectionate
supervision of Kensington. But sometimes when her mother had to stay at
home, she was allowed to go out driving all alone with her dear Feodora
and her dear Lehzen, and she could talk and look as she liked, and it
was very delightful.

The visits to Claremont were frequent enough; but one day, on a special
occasion, she paid one of a rarer and more exciting kind. When she was
seven years old, she and her mother and sister were asked by the King
to go down to Windsor. George IV, who had transferred his fraternal
ill-temper to his sister-in-law and her family, had at last grown tired
of sulking, and decided to be agreeable. The old rip, bewigged and
gouty, ornate and enormous, with his jewelled mistress by his side and
his flaunting court about him, received the tiny creature who was one
day to hold in those same halls a very different state. "Give me your
little paw," he said; and two ages touched. Next morning, driving in his
phaeton with the Duchess of Gloucester, he met the Duchess of Kent and
her child in the Park. "Pop her in," were his orders, which, to the
terror of the mother and the delight of the daughter, were immediately
obeyed. Off they dashed to Virginia Water, where there was a great
barge, full of lords and ladies fishing, and another barge with a band;
and the King ogled Feodora, and praised her manners, and then turned to
his own small niece. "What is your favourite tune? The band shall play
it." "God save the King, sir," was the instant answer. The Princess's
reply has been praised as an early example of a tact which was
afterwards famous. But she was a very truthful child, and perhaps it was
her genuine opinion.

III

In 1827 the Duke of York, who had found some consolation for the loss of
his wife in the sympathy of the Duchess of Rutland, died, leaving behind
him the unfinished immensity of Stafford House and L200,000 worth of
debts. Three years later George IV also disappeared, and the Duke of
Clarence reigned in his stead. The new Queen, it was now clear, would
in all probability never again be a mother; the