QUEEN.  I don’t like cats:  I never did.  Treacherous, deceitful creatures! 
Now a dog always looks up to you.

J.B.  Yes, Ma’am; they are tasteful, attractive animals; and that, maybe, is the reason.  They give you a good conceit of yourself, dogs do.  You never have to apologise to a dog.  Do him an injury—­you’ve only to say you forgive him, and he’s friends again.

(Accepting his views with a nodding smile, she resumes her pen, and spreads paper.)

QUEEN.  Now, Brown, I must get to work again.  I have writing to do.  See that I’m not disturbed.

J.B.  Then when were you wanting to see your visitor, Ma’am?  There’s his chair waiting.

QUEEN.  Ah, yes, to be sure.  But I didn’t want to worry him too soon.  What is the time?

J.B.  Nearly twelve, Ma’am.

QUEEN.  Oh! then I think I may.  Will you go and tell him:  the Queen’s compliments, and she would like to see him, now?

J.B.  I will go and tell him, Ma’am.

QUEEN.  And then I shan’t want you any more—­till this afternoon.

J.B.  Then I’ll just go across and take lunch at home, Ma’am.

QUEEN.  Yes, do!  That will be nice for you.  And Brown, mind you have that leg seen to!

(Mr. John Brown has started to go, when his step is arrested.)

J.B.  His lordship is there in the garden, Ma’am, talking to the Princess.

QUEEN.  What, before he has seen me?  Go, and take him away from the Princess, and tell him to come here!

J.B.  I will, Ma’am.

QUEEN.  And you had better take Mop with you.  Now, dear Brown, do have your poor leg seen to, at once!

J.B.  Indeed, and I will, Ma’am.  Come, Mop, man!  Come and tell his lordship he’s wanted.

(EXIT Mr. John Brown, nicely accompanied by Mop.)

(Left to herself the Queen administers a feminine touch or two to dress and cap and hair; then with dignified composure she resumes her writing, and continues to write even when the shadow of her favourite minister crosses the entrance, and he stands hat in hand before her, flawlessly arrayed in a gay frock suit suggestive of the period when male attire was still not only a fashion but an art.

Despite, however, the studied correctness of his costume, face and deportment give signs of haggard fatigue; and when he bows it is the droop of a weary man, slow in the recovery.  Just at the fitting moment for full acceptance of his silent salutation, the Royal Lady lays down her pen_.)

QUEEN.  Oh, how do you do, my dear Lord Beaconsfield!  Good morning; and welcome to, Balmoral.

LORD B. (as he kisses the hand extended to him).  That word from your Majesty brings all its charms to life!  What a prospect of beauty I see around me!

QUEEN.  You arrived early?  I hope you are sufficiently rested.

LORD B. Refreshed, Madam; rest will come later.