“That bastard!” Wept Lady Abigail, covering half of her face with a handkerchief.
“Who’s bastard?” Asked Lady Eleanor, one of the Queen’s other ladies-in-waiting.
“Who do you think?” Spat Abigail. “The Prime Minister, of course. And it’s not just one. He apparently has half a dozen of them by as many women! It’s disgusting. And to think that I was on the verge of…” She trailed off and surrendered herself to weeping and sobbing.
“Oh, Abigail,” interjected Queen Pirouette, who was sitting in front of her vanity mirror, making a last minute adjustment to her ornate wig. (The wig stood a foot tall and was festooned with strings of pearls, interspersed with diamonds.) “I think you are being entirely juvenile. After all, you of all people know how handsome the Prime Minister is. Add to that his enormous wealth and power, and what do you have? You have a magnet for ambitious women who want to sleep their way to the top. It’s the oldest story in the book. You know how men are. Throw a woman at him who is not horribly disfigured, and he will take her. Now dry your eyes and help me with my makeup!”