I could meet Her Majesty the Queen at the
Court of St. James without the slightest flutter of embarrassment,
because I know I could trust her not to presume on my
defencelessness to enter into conversation with me.
But this duke,
whose dukedom very likely dates back to the hour of the Norman
Conquest, is a very different person, and is to be met under very
different circumstances. He may ask me my politics. Of course I
can tell him that I am a Mugwump, but what if he asks me why I am a
Mugwump?"
"He will not," Hilda answered. "Englishmen are not wholly devoid of
feeling!"
"And how shall I address him?" I went on. "Does one call him 'your
Grace,' or 'your Royal Highness'? Oh for a thousandth-part of the
unblushing impertinence of that countrywoman of mine who called your
future king 'Tummy'! but she was a beauty, and I am not pretty
enough to be anything but discreetly well-mannered. Shall you sit
in his presence, or stand and grovel alternately? Does one have to
curtsy? Very well, then, make any excuses you like for me, Hilda:
say I'm eccentric, say I'm deranged, say I'm a Nihilist. I will
hide under the scullery table, fling myself in the moat, lock myself
in the keep, let the portcullis fall on me, die any appropriate
early English death, - anything rather than curtsy in a tailor-made
gown; I can kneel beautifully, Hilda, if that will do:
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