closely, for instance, there might be something ominous in the curious contour of that little mouth.  When, after her first Council, she crossed the ante-room and found her mother waiting for her, she said, “And now, Mamma, am I really and truly Queen?” “You see, my dear, that it is so.”  “Then, dear Mamma, I hope you will grant me the first request I make to you, as Queen.  Let me be by myself for an hour.”  For an hour she remained in solitude.  Then she reappeared, and gave a significant order:  her bed was to be moved out of her mother’s room.  It was the doom of the Duchess of Kent.  The long years of waiting were over at last; the moment of a lifetime had come; her daughter was Queen of England; and that very moment brought her own annihilation.  She found herself, absolutely and irretrievably, shut off from every vestige of influence, of confidence, of power.  She was surrounded, indeed, by all the outward signs of respect and consideration; but that only made the inward truth of her position the more intolerable.  Through the mingled formalities of Court etiquette and filial duty, she could never penetrate to Victoria.  She was unable to conceal her disappointment and her rage.  “Il n’y a plus d’avenir pour moi,” she exclaimed to Madame de Lieven; “je ne suis plus rien.”  For eighteen years, she said, this child had been the sole object of her existence, of her thoughts, her hopes, and now—­no! she would not be comforted, she had lost everything, she was to the last degree unhappy.  Sailing, so gallantly and so pertinaciously, through the buffeting storms of life, the stately vessel, with sails still swelling and pennons flying, had put into harbour at last; to find there nothing—­a land of bleak desolation.

Within a month of the accession, the realities of the new situation assumed a visible shape.  The whole royal household moved from Kensington to Buckingham Palace, and, in the new abode, the Duchess of Kent was given a suite of apartments entirely separate from the Queen’s.  By Victoria herself the change was welcomed, though, at the moment of departure, she could afford to be sentimental.  “Though I rejoice to go into B. P. for many reasons,” she wrote in her diary, “it is not without feelings of regret that I shall bid adieu for ever to this my birthplace, where I have been born and bred, and to which I am really attached!” Her memory lingered for a moment over visions of the past:  her sister’s wedding, pleasant balls and delicious concerts and there were other recollections.  “I have gone through painful and disagreeable scenes here, ’tis true,” she concluded, “but still I am fond of the poor old palace.”

At the same time she took another decided step.  She had determined that she would see no more of Sir John Conroy.  She rewarded his past services with liberality:  he was given a baronetcy and a pension of L3000 a year; he remained a member of the Duchess’s household, but his personal intercourse with the Queen came to an abrupt conclusion.