Throwing them down at last, he sank his head in his hands in an absolute cinema pose of despondency, and sighed to an extent which must have been painful to his lungs.

The dame returned to sniff burning cakes and fly to the rescue of her cookery.

Fil was quite a good little actress, and produced what she considered her _piece de resistance_.

She had spent her summer holidays in Somerset, and had there picked up a local ballad which dealt with the legend in dialect.

She brought out a verse of it now with great effect: "Cusn't ee zee the ca-akes, man?
And cusn't ee zee 'em burrn?
I'se warrant ee eat 'em fast enough, Zoon as it be ee turn!" And catching up a biscuit, carefully blackened beforehand by toasting it over the gas, she flaunted it in the face of the embarrassed monarch.
The dramatic situation was slightly spoilt by the delay in the entrance of the courtier, who ought to have come in at that psychological moment, and didn't.