much more liberally than I surrendered him. He filled his lungs,
for the most part; with the comedy of his queer fate: the tragedy
was in the spectacles through which I chose to look. He was
conscious of inconvenience, and above all of a great renouncement;
but how could he have heard a mere dirge in the bells of his
accession? The sagacity and the jealousy were mine, and his the
impressions and the harvest. Of course, as regards Mrs. Wimbush, I
was worsted in my encounters, for wasn't the state of his health
the very reason for his coming to her at Prestidge? Wasn't it
precisely at Prestidge that he was to be coddled, and wasn't the
dear Princess coming to help her to coddle him? The dear Princess,
now on a visit to England, was of a famous foreign house, and, in
her gilded cage, with her retinue of keepers and feeders, was the
most expensive specimen in the good lady's collection. I don't
think her august presence had had to do with Paraday's consenting
to go, but it's not impossible he had operated as a bait to the
illustrious stranger. The party had been made up for him, Mrs.
Wimbush averred, and every one was counting on it, the dear
Princess most of all. If he was well enough he was to read them
something absolutely fresh, and it was on that particular prospect
the Princess had set her heart. She was so fond of genius in ANY
walk of life, and was so used to it and understood it so well: she
was the greatest of Mr. Paraday's admirers, she devoured everything
he wrote. And then he read like an angel. Mrs. Wimbush reminded
me that he had again and again given her, Mrs. Wimbush, the
privilege of listening to him.

I looked at her a moment. "What has he read to you?" I crudely
enquired.