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THE KING doors flew open with a whirr and two very tall men entered bearing trays which they put down on a table at the back of the room. The men must have been six feet three or four inches in height, and were resplendent in richly coloured liveries that shone like plush. They wore powdered hair, and silk stockings displayed well-shaped calves and ankles. Quickly placing the dishes in order on the table with a "Your luncheon is served, Sir," they silently and swiftly left me, bewildered by the unexpected splendour of their appearance. Had I rubbed Aladdin's lamp the genii could not have been more prompt in carrying out an order.

On the table were glistening glass and polished silver and damask naperies of snowlike whiteness. Covers had been removed from hot dishes containing lamb cutlets daintily trimmed and grilled and seasoned, the tenderest of fresh green peas, and other vegetables. Sweets that only a chef of genius could have devised, and hothouse fruits just picked from the royal conservatories with that virgin blue bloom upon them that rude fingers had not rubbed or spotted. There was nothing unusual or extravagant about this table. It was simply a thing well done.

In spite of the state of my nerves, I sat down to enjoy the sweet savour of the King's food, and lingered long over the luscious fruits and pale golden wine. The King at this hour must be lunching, I thought, so I did not hurry.

The room I was in was evidently used as a sort of studio, a place devoted to these casual and hasty sittings. There was a large model stand or throne with a chair on it, several easels, and an absence of furniture, so that moving about was not interfered with. While I was wondering who had been the last to give sittings, and to what