When these, and some more anecdotes which I do not so clearly remember,
were told, the king left us, and went to Mr. Bernard Dewes. A pause
ensuing, I, too, drew back, meaning to return to my original station,
which, being opposite the fire, was never a bad one. But the moment I
began retreating, the queen, bending forward, and speaking in a very low
voice, said, “Miss Burney!”--and, upon my coming up to her, almost in a
whisper, cried, “But shall we have no more--nothing more?”
I could not but understand her, and only shook my head. The queen
then, as if she thought she had said too much, with great sweetness and
condescension, drew back herself, and, very delicately, said,
“To be sure it is, I own, a very home question, for one who has not the
pleasure to know you.”
I was quite ashamed of this apology, but did not know what to say to
it. But how amiable a simplicity in her speaking of herself in such a
style,--“for one who has not the pleasure to know you.”
“But, indeed,” continued she, presently, “I would not say it, only
that I think from what has been done, there is a power to do so much
good--and good to young people, which is so very good a thing--that I
cannot help wishing it could be.”
I felt very grateful for this speech, and for the very soft manner in
which she said it; and I very much wished to thank her and was trying to
mutter something, though not very intelligibly, when the king suddenly
coming up to us, inquired what was going forward.
The queen readily repeated her kind speech.
The king eagerly undertook to make my answer for me, crying, “O, but
she will write!--she only waits for inclination--she told me so.” Then,
speaking to me, he said, “What--is it not so?”