Apart, over by the fire, in a great chair of gilt leather,
lounged the King, languidly observing this smaller party, a
faint, indolent smile o n his swarthy, saturnine countenance.
Absently, with one hand he stroked a little spaniel that was
curled in his lap. A black boy in a gorgeous, plumed turban and a
long, crimson surcoat arabesqued in gold--there were three or
four such attendants about the room--proffered him a cup of
posses on a golden salver.
The King rose, thrust aside the little blackamoor, and with his
spaniel under his arm, sauntered across to Miss Stewart's table.
Soon he found himself alone with her--the others having removed
themselves on his approach, as jackals fall back before the
coming of the lion. The last to go, and with signs of obvious
reluctance, was his Grace of Richmond, a delicately-built,
uncomely, but very glittering gentleman.
Charles faced her across the table, the tall house of cards
standing between them.
Miss invited his Majesty's admiration for my Lord of Buckingham's
architecture. Pouf! His Majesty blew, and the edifice rustled
down to a mere heap of cards again.
"Symbol of kingly power," said Miss, pertly. "You demolish better
than you build, sire.
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