It's Twelve-ten in the Other World now, and the ball has nearly an hour to go. The young men and women will still be dancing in the hall, music ringing from the orchestra chamber above, pinging from the chandeliers and wine glasses. Young ladies should never drink wine--it is most unbecoming; but they will insist anyhow. Their cheeks flushed with spirits and pleasure, they'll take their gentlemen by the hands, and smile, and perhaps flutter their fan. An alluring glance does much for a gentleman in the flames of passion, and more for the dandies 'suffering' the same.
The King will sit and watch, though the Queen has long since gone to bed. He, too, is drinking something; although none of the dancers can guess what it is.
Wine, they venture to their partners at a turn. It looks like wine.
Mead? the partners return. It may be mead.
Rose-petal wine, the ladies counter. Rose-petal wines in pinks, reds and golds; like drinking a sunset, they say.
Perhaps, concede the gentlemen. But among themselves they agree: sweet honey-mead of clover and sunshine--summer distilled for the tongue's pleasure.
They continue to speculate, these dancers, as if a night of music and movement were not employment enough for them. Why does the King always stay, they wonder, while the Queen always retires so soon?
What interest can the sporting of the young hold for one so old? they jest.
The King, ancient but youthful still, merely sits on his throne; sipping his unknown drink and watching the dancers. It amuses him that they think he cannot hear them. He can hear it all perfectly well, down to the whispering of lovers in the far corner of the hall; and this is part of the reason that he stays. His people are such high entertainment.
