"He's got to mourn, anyhow," announced the doomed Monarch, "or he'll jolly well get something to make him."
Venus turned round twice, lay down near the block, and heaved a long deep sigh.
"That's better, my faithful Rissole," commended his mistress. "I knew you could mourn if you tried."
"No—Rithole was murdered," observed the Vice. "I wemember—because I was Rithole, and Buster was the band of murderers. He couldn't be here at your funeral when he's had one of his own."
"Quite right," agreed the Queen, and quoted "‘the faithful Rissole slain'."
"He can be a Maid of Honour then," she added. "Venus, be a Maid of Honour—and try and look like one. . . . Get him that big doll's-nightdress or something. He doesn't look a bit like a Maid of Honour as he is. . . . And tie that black hair-ribbon on his tail, for mourning. . . . Now, I'm ready," and the Queen stepped on to the scaffold. Turning to the little throng of halberdiers, officers, retainers, ladies and gentle-
