Jean little expected that her quiet rebuke would cause such an outburst.  She had always held the King in the highest esteem, as one who ruled by divine authority.  To hear him now reviled, was more than she could endure.

“You have no right to talk about our good King in such a manner,” she stoutly defended.  “He is a great King, and thousands have died for him in the terrible war.”

“A great King!  A great King!” the man sneered.  “And how great is he?  He is so great that he objected to painting St. Paul’s Cathedral as being too much like the Roman Catholic custom.  He is so great that he doesn’t like Shakespeare, but he laughs to split his sides at farces and pantomimes, where clowns swallow carrots and strings of sausages.  He is so great that he spends much of his time learning the exact number of buttons, tags and laces, and the cut of all the cocked-hats, pigtails, and gaiters in his army.  Oh, yes, he is so great that he is always meddling in other people’s affairs.  He pokes his red face into every cottage for miles around.  Imagine the King of England going about in his old wig, shovel-hat, and Windsor uniform, hob-nobbing with pig-boys, and old women making apple dumplings, and hurrahing with lazy louts early in the morning!  That is the great King of England!  How proud you must be of such a creature.”

“I am proud of him,” Jean retorted, “and you should not misrepresent him.  The people love him for his pure and simple manner of living.  He goes among them that he might know how they live, for he wants to help them all he can.  They call him ‘Farmer George,’ so I have heard my father say, and I am sure that is an honour for any King.”

“Queer honour, I should say, Miss.  And he won great honour in his fight with America, didn’t he?  He was going to teach the colonies a lesson, and whip them into line.  I’d like to have seen his old red face when the news of the defeat of his forces reached him.  He’s getting his punishment now, and he’ll get more before he’s through.  He ruined me, an honest man.  But he’s getting his turn.  I’ve heard that he goes out of his mind at times, and that his sons are turning out bad.  Yes, yes, he’s finding out now what it is to suffer.  Oh, he’ll learn, and I’m glad.”

To these bitter words Jean made no reply.  She realised that the less she said the better it would be.  To oppose this man would only inflame his anger.  She knew that his excitement increased his suffering, for at times during his tirades he had placed his hand to his injured side and gasped for breath.  As she gazed into the fire she knew that the man was watching her, although she did not look in his direction.  For a few minutes a deep silence pervaded the room, and when the man again spoke it was in a much milder tone.

“You must have had a hard time of it,” he said.  “I can well imagine how greatly worried your father must be.”