"It is no laughing matter, Sir. I am too old to be ordered about by petty princelings and their servants."
Charles sobered suddenly.
“But, Roxhythe, it is a plaguey nuisance. This means I must turn to France." He bit his finger-nail, frowning. Then he smiled again. "So you came away with a flea in your ear, my poor Roxhythe? God's Body, how I have ill-used you! But tell me more of William. You say he has personality; he attracts. But does he inspire his followers with confidence?"
"Judging from Dart's airs, yes, Sir. He is very well served. It seems his servants would undergo any torture ever invented sooner than betray him."
Charles made a rueful grimace.
"And," continued Roxhythe, "he says himself that he will not have any man about him whom he could not trust implicitly."
"If I said that, I had only you left," remarked Charles.
"Precisely. And he seems to allow no familiarity—no license. He lives in an atmosphere of gloom and depression." Roxhythe looked round the luxurious room. "Thank God for Whitehall, and mine own Prince!" he said devoutly.
Charles smiled.
"He is more kingly than I am, eh?"
"No," said Roxhythe instantly. "He is too young to unbend. But in intrigue, Sir, you have met your match in William of Nassau."
"I must have a care," laughed the King.
"Indeed yes, Sir. Remember, the Orange is a man, and one who must not be forgotten. I foresee trouble. Guard against him."
"I will," promised the King. "And now, David, we must look to France."
