ia."

Hyacinth looked troubled.

"He oughtn't to come over anybody's breakfast table quite so quickly
as that. Ought he, Father?"

"A lamentable display of manners, my dear. I shall withdraw now and
compose a stiff note to him. The amenities must be observed."

Looking as severe as a naturally jovial face would permit him, and
wondering a little if he had pronounced "amenities" right, he strode
to the library.

The library was his Majesty's favourite apartment. Here in the
mornings he would discuss affairs of state with his Chancellor, or
receive any distinguished visitors who were to come to his kingdom in
search of adventure. Here in the afternoon, with a copy of _What to
say to a Wizard_ or some such book taken at random from the shelves,
he would give himself up to meditation.

And it was the distinguished visitors of the morning who gave him most
to think about in the afternoon. There were at this moment no fewer
than seven different Princes engaged upon seven different enterprises,
to whom, in the event of a successful conclusion, he had promised the
hand of Hyacinth and half his kingdom. No wonder he felt that she
needed the guiding hand of a mother.

The stiff note to Barodia was not destined to be written. He was
still hesitating between two different kinds of nib, when the door was
flung open and the fateful name of the Countess Belvane was announced.

The Countess Belvane! What can I say which will bring home to you
that wonderful, terrible, fascinating woman? Mastered as she was by
overweening ambition, utterly unscrupulous in her methods of achieving
her purpose, none the less her adorable humanity betrayed itself in a
passion for diary-keeping and a devotion to the simpler forms of
lyrical verse. That she is the villain of the piece I know well; in
his _Euralia Past and Present_ the eminent historian, Roger
Scurvilegs, does not spare her; but that she had her great qualities I
should be the last to deny.

She had been writing poetry that morning, and she wore green. She
always wore green when the Muse was upon her: a pleasing habit which,
whether as a warning or an inspiration, modern poets might do well to
imitate. She carried an enormous diary under her arm; and in her mind
several alternative ways of putting down her reflections on her way to
the Palace.

"Good morning, dear Countess," said the King, rising only too gladly
from his nibs; "an early visit."

"You don't mind, you