'Oh, sir,' screams Her Majesty. 'Your own nephew! our late King's only
son.'

'Giglio may go to the tailor's, and order the bills to be sent in to
Glumboso to pay. Confound him! I mean bless his dear heart. He need want
for nothing; give him a couple of guineas for pocket-money, my dear;
and you may as well order yourself bracelets while you are about the
necklace, Mrs. V.'

Her Majesty, or MRS. V., as the monarch facetiously called her (for
even royalty will have its sport, and this august family were very
much attached), embraced her husband, and, twining her arm round her
daughter's waist, they quitted the breakfast-room in order to make all
things ready for the princely stranger.

When they were gone, the smile that had lighted up the eyes of the
HUSBAND and FATHER fled--the pride of the KING fled--the MAN was alone.
Had I the pen of a G. P. R. James, I would describe Valoroso's torments
in the choicest language; in which I would also depict his flashing
eye, his distended nostril--his dressing-gown, pocket-handkerchief, and
boots. But I need not say I have NOT the pen of that novelist; suffice
it to say, Valoroso was alone.

He rushed to the cupboard, seizing from the table one of the many
egg-cups with which his princely board was served for the matin meal,
drew out a bottle of right Nantz or Cognac, filled and emptied the cup
several times, and laid it down with a hoarse 'Ha, ha, ha! now Valoroso
is a man again!'

'But oh!' he went on (still sipping, I am sorry to say), 'ere I was a