For a moment again I hesitated; for it is not to everyone that a King offers his friendship.  If it had been that alone I think I might have yielded, for I knew that I loved this man in spite of all his wickedness and his treatment of me—­for that, and for my “apostleship” as he called it, I might have stayed.  But at the word Viscounty all turned to bitterness:  I remembered my childish dreams and the sweetness of them, and the sweetness of my dear love who was to have shared them; and all turned to bitterness and vanity.

“No, Sir,” said I—­and I felt my lips tremble.  “No, Sir.  I will be ungracious and—­and Christian to the end.  I am resolved to go; and nothing in this world shall keep me from it.”

The King stood up abruptly; and I rose with him.  I did not know whether he were angry or not; and I did not greatly care.  He stepped away from me, and began to walk up and down.  One of his bitch-spaniels whined at him from her basket, lifting her great liquid eyes that were not unlike his own; and he stooped and caressed her for a moment.  Then the clocks began to chime, one after the other, for it was eight o’clock, and I heard them at it, too, in the bed-chamber beyond.  There would be thirty or forty of them, I daresay, in the two chambers.  So for a minute or two he went up and down; and I have but to close my eyes now, to see him again.  He was limping a little from the sore on his heel; but he carried himself very kingly, his swarthy face looking straight before him, and his lips pursed.  I think that indeed he was a little angry, but that he was resolved not to shew it.

Suddenly he wheeled on me, and held out his hand.

“Well, Mr. Mallock; there is no more to be said; and I must honour you for it whatever else I do.  I would that all my servants were as disinterested.”

I knelt to kiss his hand.  I think I could not have spoken at that moment.  As I stood up, he spoke again.

“When do you leave town?” he said.

“On Tuesday, Sir.”

“Well, come and see me again before you go.  No, not in private:  you need not fear for that.  Come to-morrow night, to the levee after supper.”

“I will do so, Sir,” said I.

* * * * *

On the following night then, which was Sunday, I presented myself for the last time, I thought, to His Majesty.

I need not say that half a dozen times since I had left him, my resolution had faltered; though, it had never broken down.  I heard mass in Weld Street; and there again I wondered whether I had decided rightly, and again as I burned all my papers after dinner—­(for when a man begins afresh he had best make a clean sweep of the past).  I went to take the air a little, before sunset, in St. James’ Park, and from a good distance saw His Majesty going to feed the ducks, with a dozen spaniels, I daresay going after him, and a couple of gentlemen with him, but