in its reflections, gives--an interior, one may say--of almost floral
delicacy; making these canvas walls like the white petals of an enfolding
flower.

QUEEN. Are you writing another of your novels, Lord Beaconsfield? That
sounds like composition.

LORD B. Believe me, Madam, only an impromptu.

QUEEN. Now, my dear Lord, pray sit down! I had that chair specially
brought for you. Generally I sit here quite alone.

LORD B. Such kind forethought, Madam, overwhelms me! Words are inadequate.
I accept, gratefully, the repose you offer me.

(_He sinks into the chair, and sits motionless and mute, in a weariness
that is not the less genuine because it provides an effect. But from one
seated in the Royal Presence much is expected; and so it is in a tone of
sprightly expectancy that his Royal Mistress now prompts him to his task
of entertaining her_.)

QUEEN. Well? And how is everything?

LORD B. (_rousing himself with an effort_). Oh! Pardon! Your Majesty
would have me speak on politics, and affairs of State? I was rapt away for
the moment.

QUEEN. Do not be in any hurry, dear Prime Minister.

LORD B. Ah! That word from an indulgent Mistress spurs me freshly to my