moment.

Belvane curtsied low.

"Good afternoon, your Royal Highness. I am here purely on a matter of
business. I thought it my duty to inform your Royal Highness of the
result of the Literature prize." She spoke meekly, and as one who
forgave Hyacinth for her unkindness towards her.

"Certainly, Countess. I shall be glad to hear."

The Countess unrolled a parchment.

"The prize has been won," she said, "by----" she held the parchment a
little closer to her eyes, "by Charlotte Patacake."

"Oh, yes. Who is she?"

"A most deserving woman, your Royal Highness. If she is the woman I'm
thinking of, a most deserving person, to whom the money will be more
than welcome. Her poem shows a sense of values combined
with--er--breadth, and--er--distance, such as I have seldom seen
equalled. The--er--technique is only excelled by the--shall I
say?--tempermentality, the boldness of the colouring, by the--how
shall I put it?--the firmness of the outline. In short----"

"In short," said the Princess, "you like it."

"Your Royal Highness, it is unique. But naturally you will wish to
hear it for yourself. It is only some twelve hundred lines long. I
will declaim it to your Royal Highness."

She held the manuscript out at the full length of her left arm, struck
an attitude with the right arm, and began in her most thrilling voice:

"_King Merriwig the First rode out to war,_
_As many other kings----_"

"Yes, Countess, but another time. I am busy this afternoon. As you
know, I think, the Prince Udo of Araby arrives to-morrow, and----"

Belvane's lips were still moving, and her right arm swayed up and
down. "_What gladsome cheers assailed the balmy air!_" she murmured
to herself, and her hand when up to heaven. "_They come from north,
from south_" (she pointed in the directions mentioned), "_from
everywhere. No wight that stood----_"

"He will be received privately up here by myself in the first place,
and afterwards----"

"_Could gaze upon the sight unmoved, I wot_," whispered Belvane, and
placed her hand upon her breast to show that anyhow it had been too
much for _her_. "_Why do they march so----_ I beg your Royal
Highness's pardon. I was so carried away by this wonderful poem. I
do beg of your Royal Highness to read it."

The Princess waved the manuscript aside.

"I am not unmindful of the claims of literature, Countess, and I shall
certainly read the poem another time. Meanwhile I can