it, it will not do to refuse and to put off the negotiation upon it.”  On this point there can be little doubt that Lord Melbourne was right.  The question was a complicated and subtle one, and it had never arisen before; but subsequent constitutional practice has determined that a Queen Regnant must accede to the wishes of her Prime Minister as to the personnel of the female part of her Household.  Lord Melbourne’s wisdom, however, was wasted.  The Queen would not be soothed, and still less would she take advice.  It was outrageous of the Tories to want to deprive her of her Ladies, and that night she made up her mind that, whatever Sir Robert might say, she would refuse to consent to the removal of a single one of them.  Accordingly, when, next morning, Peel appeared again, she was ready for action.  He began by detailing the Cabinet appointments, and then he added “Now, ma’am, about the Ladies-” when the Queen sharply interrupted him.  “I cannot give up any of my Ladies,” she said.  “What, ma’am!” said Sir Robert, “does your Majesty mean to retain them all?” “All,” said the Queen.  Sir Robert’s face worked strangely; he could not conceal his agitation.  “The Mistress of the Robes and the Ladies of the Bedchamber?” he brought out at last.  “All,” replied once more her Majesty.  It was in vain that Peel pleaded and argued; in vain that he spoke, growing every moment more pompous and uneasy, of the constitution, and Queens Regnant, and the public interest; in vain that he danced his pathetic minuet.  She was adamant; but he, too, through all his embarrassment, showed no sign of yielding; and when at last he left her nothing had been decided—­the whole formation of the Government was hanging in the wind.  A frenzy of excitement now seized upon Victoria.  Sir Robert, she believed in her fury, had tried to outwit her, to take her friends from her, to impose his will upon her own; but that was not all:  she had suddenly perceived, while the poor man was moving so uneasily before her, the one thing that she was desperately longing for—­a loop-hole of escape.  She seized a pen and dashed off a note to Lord Melbourne.

“Sir Robert has behaved very ill,” she wrote, “he insisted on my giving up my Ladies, to which I replied that I never would consent, and I never saw a man so frightened...  I was calm but very decided, and I think you would have been pleased to see my composure and great firmness; the Queen of England will not submit to such trickery.  Keep yourself in readiness, for you may soon be wanted.”  Hardly had she finished when the Duke of Wellington was announced.  “Well, Ma’am,” he said as he entered, “I am very sorry to find there is a difficulty.”  “Oh!” she instantly replied, “he began it, not me.”  She felt that only one thing now was needed:  she must be firm.  And firm she was.  The venerable conqueror of Napoleon was outfaced by the relentless equanimity of a girl in her teens.  He could not move the Queen one inch.  At last, she even ventured to rally him.  “Is Sir Robert so weak,” she asked, “that even the Ladies must be of his opinion?” On which the Duke made a brief and humble expostulation, bowed low, and departed.