QUEEN.  Yes, my dear friend, go and rest yourself!  But before you go, will you not wait, and take a glass of wine with me?

(He bows, and she rings.)

And there is just one other thing I wish to say before we part.

LORD B. Speak, Madam, for thy servant heareth.

(The other servant is now also standing to attention, awaiting orders.)

QUEEN.  Bring some wine.
(The Attendant GOES.)

That Order of the Garter which I had intended to onfer upon the Sultan—­ have you, as Prime Minister, any objection if I bestow it nearer home, on one to whom personally—­I cannot say more—­on yourself, I mean.

(At that pronouncement of the royal favour, the Minister stands, exhausted of energy, in an attitude of drooping humility.  The eloquent silence is broken presently by the Queen.)

QUEEN.  Dear Lord Beaconsfield, I want your answer.

LORD B. Oh, Madam!  What adequate answer can these poor lips make to so magnificent an offer?  Yet answer I must.  We have spoken together briefly to-day of our policies in the Near East.  Madam, let me come to you again when I have saved Constantinople, and secured once more upon a firm basis the peace of Europe.  Then ask me again whether I have any objection, and I will own—­“I have none!”

(RE-ENTERS Attendant.  He deposits a tray with decanter and glasses, and retires again.)

QUEEN.  Very well, Lord Beaconsfield.  And if you do not remind me, I shall remind you. (She points to the tray.) Pray, help yourself!

(He takes up the decanter.)

LORD B. I serve you, Madam?

QUEEN.  Thank you.

(He fills the two glasses; presents hers to the Queen, and takes up his own.)

LORD B. May I propose for myself—­a toast, Madam?

(The Queen sees what is coming, and bows graciously.)

LORD B. The Queen!  God bless her!

(He drains the glass, then breaks it against the pole of the tent, and throws away the stem.)

An old custom, Madam, observed by loyal defenders of the House of Stewart, so that no lesser health might ever be drunk from the same glass.  To my old hand came a sudden access of youthful enthusiasm—­an ardour which I could not restrain.  Your pardon, Madam!

QUEEN (very gently).  Go and lie down, Lord Beaconsfield; you need rest.

LORD B. Adieu, Madam.

QUEEN.  Draw your curtains, and sleep well!

(For a moment he stands gazing at her with a look of deep emotion; he tries to speak.  Ordinary words seem to fail; he falters into poetry.)

  “When pain and anguish wring the brow,
  A ministering Angel, thou!”

(It has been beautifully said, they both feel.  Silent and slow, with head reverentially bowed, he backs from the Presence.)

(The Queen sits and looks after the retreating figure, then at the broken fragments of glass.  She takes up the hand-bell and rings.  The Attendant ENTERS.)