art thou named Hog, O Ancient Briton. And aren't you about dry now?"
"Yes. Are you going to be an Ansiatic Briton? Can I paint you? I'm a norful good artith, Buthter thaid tho!" said the Vice hopefully.
"No, Ancient British ladies didn't paint," was the chilling answer. "Besides I am going to be a Queen—not a woady buffer. My name's Bawdy Seer, and you can call me Baw or Bawdy, for short, if you can't remember it all."
"Thanks," returned the Vice, conscious of terrible deficiencies in this direction. He did his best to remember and understand, but realised that his stupidity, ignorance, and inferior histrionic powers often took the gilt off the ginger-bread, when they did not actually take the ginger-bread from under the gilt.
"Now, then, Hog," continued the Queen, "can you surge? If so, crowd round my chariot into a fearful, howling, surging mob, and I will make a stirring speech. . . . Mind you are stirred a lot," she added sotto voce.
"Friends, Britons, Countrybreds, lend me your
