I was beginning to feel worn and
sad too.
Shortly after luncheon, I found the Major in the midst of some more
preparations. He said this was the Princess Alice's birthday. I
concealed my grief.
"Who is the Princess Alice?" I asked.
"Daughter of her Majesty the Queen," the Major said.
I succumbed. That night we celebrated the Princess Alice's birthday. We
kept it up as late as usual, and really I enjoyed it a good deal. But I
could not stand lemonade. I drank a couple of kegs of ice-water.
In the morning I had toothache, and cramps, and chilblains, and my teeth
were on edge from the lemonade, and I was still pretty gassy, I found
the inexorable Major at it again.
"Who is this for?" I asked.
"His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh," he said.
"Son of the Queen?"
"Yes."
"And this is his birthday--you haven't made any mistake?"
"No; the celebration comes off to-night."
I bowed before the new calamity. We celebrated the day. I drank part of
a barrel of cider. Among the first objects that met my weary and
jaundiced eye the next day was the Major at his interminable
preparations again. My heart was broken, and I wept.
"Whom do we mourn this time?" I said.
"The Princess Beatrice, daughter of the Queen."
"Here, now," I said; "it is time to inquire into this thing.
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