in having a say in who would follow him on the throne. And faced
with what he clearly saw was an impossible number of choices, he
therefore sought the opinion of his favorite advisor, the young Sir
Philo. Now, persons of a cynical bent might begin to think that Sir
Philo, an eligible bachelor himself and not at all impervious to
feminine gorgeousness, would argue craftily that he himself was the
most suitable and worthy candidate. This might have been so but for
two equally powerful reasons. First, Sir Philo, brave, skilled, and
thoughtful, was a man of integrity who would never abuse his position
as the king's advisor to advance his own interests, even in a matter
so emotionally and biologically compelling as that before us. The
other reason is that Sir Philo was already in love with another. It
was a gentle love, like a deep river, quiet and calm on the surface
but fully substantial and powerful in its flow.
His happiness, the Lady Lucinda, though not of outward visage the
equal of Jennifrella, was handsome enough for the young knight's
daydreams. When asked what attracted him to Lucinda, he would answer
ambiguously or mutter something about the light in her eyes. What
joy he got sitting with her under a tree in the bright spring, gazing
upon her and dallying with her fingers or brushing a love-sick gnat
from her collar. But what really twirled Sir Philo's cuff links was
Lucinda's wit, her laugh, her playfulness. He relished taking the
sprightly maid hand in hand on long walks, listening to the music of
her voice and to the sentiments accompanying the music. How he loved
to play with her tresses, or when her hair was up, to steal up behind
her and kiss her unexpectedly on the back of the neck: for she would
invariably produce a little shriek of surprise and delight and
embarrassment, and then turning to him, her cheeks glowing
irresistibly, attempt to glare and call him "monster," only to spoil
her mock anger by bursting into giggles or even outright laughter.
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