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tennis court, acting in plays, fishing with his children, sporting with his mistresses. It was incredible.
    The Princess Augusta remained stunned. She would not move from her husband’s bedside. She sat in her chair there and no persuasion could move her. It was as though she believed that by remaining there she could by the very force of her desire to bring him back breathe some life into him.
    ‘Frederick…’ she murmured, from time to time. ‘It can’t be. . . You must be here. What will become of us… of George, the children… of me?’
    In the background of her mind was that grim shadow, that old ogre, the King. Who would protect her from him now? What would he decide to do? What if he determined to take the care of the children out of her hands! This was like a nightmare.
    She covered her face with her hands, hoping that when she uncovered it she would see Fred lying there in bed smiling at her, telling her she had had a bad dream.
    But there he was, still, unlike himself. Oh, the horror of looking at the dead face of a loved one! The terrible realization that he will never speak again, that he has gone out of this life for ever!
    ‘No, Fred… no !’
    She felt the child move within her… Fred’s child. In four months time that child would be born. Only five months before this man had begotten the child and now he was dead!
    And the future? It was dark and menacing.
    A hand lightly touched her shoulder. She turned sharply. Lord Bute was looking down at her, tenderly, lovingly.
    ‘Your Highness will make yourself ill,’ he said.
    She shook her head and placed her hand rapidly over the one which lay on her shoulder. Hastily she removed it. One must be careful. The very thought of the need for care started to lift her out of her misery. John was here, dear John Stuart, Earl of Bute.
    She rose and with him left the death-chamber.
    *
    George walked up and down trying to fight back his tears. It was easier walking, he found; if he threw himself on to his bed he would break into wild sobbing; and he must remember that to give way to his grief would be childish.
    Dear kind Papa was gone! He could not realize it. He had known Papa was ill; he had been present when the tennis ball had hit him and that had started the tragic business. But to die… never to see him again! It was more than he could bear. This was the first real sorrow. His father had died in pain, and he could not bear the thought of people in pain. When two workmen had fallen from the scaffolding at Kew he had beenovercome with horror and had been affected for days. But this was his own dear Papa.
    What would become of him, what would become of them all?
    His grief was overpowering; there was nothing but his grief.
    Then it was invaded suddenly by another emotion – one of stark terror.
    Now that his father was dead he, George William Frederick, was Prince of Wales.
    *
    The King came to Leicester House, setting aside enmity at such a time.
    The children were summoned to his presence and he stared at them all, but chiefly at George. He was a terrifying old man – little, it was true, but with a red face and prominent blue eyes, and he spoke in broken English.
    ‘Vere is the Prince of Vales?’
    And George must stand before him for scrutiny. ‘Don’t be a frightened young puppy. Prince of Vales now… How old are you, eh? Thirteen… Remember now you are the Prince of Vales.’
    But there were tears in his eyes, for he was a sentimental old man for all his high temper; he saw that Augusta was genuinely grieved and tried to comfort her. The woman was a fool. Caroline had said so… his own dear wife, Caroline (and there was no woman fit to unbuckle her shoes) had said so. But fool as she was, she had been fond of Fred and any woman who could have been fond of that villain (mustn’t speak ill of the dead) of that… puppy, must be a meek woman. She’d need help in looking after the children and he’d see she got it. By God, she should do as she