"Humph. You speak French?"

"As we speak it in England."

"Yes." His father nodded. "When a man is no fool, he finds his profit in
not doing things too well. Well, Harry, are you Whig or Tory--Jacobite or
Hanoverian?"

"Whichever you like, sir."

"By the Lord, you take after me mightily. Now look 'e, thus it is. The
Queen grows old. She eats too well and drinks too well, and she has the
gout. It's common among all who know her ways that she cannot last long.
The poor soul will not be wise at dinner. But even if she should last, we
are in an odd case. For Anne hath a conscience as well as a stomach, and
it seems they grow together. As the old lady gets fatter, she feels
remorse. When she's tearful after dinner now she asks her women what
right she has to be queen and keep a good cellar while her poor
half-brother Prince James lives in exile on _vin ordinaire_."

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "'Poor, dear lad,' says she, 'and to
be sure I am a sad, bad woman. But I think I'll die a queen.' What
then, sir?"

"I don't say you are wrong, Harry. She's more like to drown the lad in
tears than right him. And meanwhile our rightful king, James the
Pretender, is left to his _vin ordinaire_. Faith, it's a proper liquor,
for rightful heirs which can't right themselves. And yet there is a
chance. The Queen has always been religious, and when a woman hath