KING   Are they? Goodness me! The United States. Well, I haven’t mentioned them. I prefer not to, whatever they’re called.
Pitt, unable to restrain himself, speaks again.

PITT   They are a fact, sir.
The King turns, furious, and thrusts his face into Pitt’s and seems about to explode, then suddenly the thunder evaporates.

KING   The vicar of Lichfield.

PITT   Sir?

KING   The vicar of Lichfield. It was his niece that married the second son of the organist at Norwich Cathedral. Goodnight, Mr Pitt.

PITT   Goodnight, Your Majesty.
The King returns to his desk, as Pitt gathers up his papers, bows and walks backwards the whole length of the enormous library.

INT. WINDSOR. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

A line of hand-bell players perform an exquisitely boring (and slow) version of ‘Greensleeves’ for the benefit of the King and Queen and the court. The King and Queen listen with rapt attention and seem actually to be enjoying themselves. But then they are sitting down; everybody else, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York included, is standing and wilting with boredom and fatigue. As they pretend to listen, the court ladies are sizing up the charms of the new equerry, Greville, and whispering behind their fans. Greville, a shy young man, is uncomfortably aware of their attentions. We note that one of the ladies, heavily pregnantt, is visibly distressed. Eventually the bell-ringers reach their somnolent conclusion and the King bursts into applause, in which he is joined by the Queen and (less enthusiastically) by the court.

KING   (turning round and getting the courtiers to clap louder) Fascinating stuff, what, what? Let’s have it again.
The hand-bells start again. The court dies of boredom.

INT. WINDSOR. DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.

The pregnant lady-in-waiting whispers to Lady Pembroke. Lady Pembroke waits until the Queen acknowledges her, then murmurs something in her ear.

LADY PEMBROKE   Your Majesty, Lady Townsend wishes to sit down.

QUEEN   Certainly not.

KING   What?

QUEEN   Lady Townsend. Wants to sit down.

KING   What for?
The Queen whispers to him.
So? You’ve had fifteen children, (raising his voice so that the court can hear) If everybody who is having a baby wants to sit, the next thing it will be everybody with gout. Before long the place will look like a Turkish harem, what, what? Oh, that’s enough.
He stops the music.
Thank you, gentlemen, thank you.
The King strides out in a huff, with the Queen hurrying after him, followed by Lady Pembroke, Fitzroy and Greville.
As the doors close on them, the courtiers sink exhausted into chairs, with the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York flinging themselves  onto the newly vacated thrones, kicking off their shoes and groaning with relief.

INT. WINDSOR. KING’S APARTMENTS. DRESSING ROOM. NIGHT.

KING   (patting Greville’s shoulder at the newly fastened epaulette) Ah, Greville. Good. Thank you. Oh, yes, that’s better, what, what?

GREVILLE   (looking at the King and smiling) Your Majesty.