The Prisoner of Zenda (Dystopian Novel). Anthony Hope

was my answer. Had I been the King, I should have thought it encouraging:

      “Haven’t you enough responsibilities on you for one day, cousin?”

      Bang, bang! Blare, blare! We were at the Palace. Guns were firing and trumpets blowing. Rows of lackeys stood waiting, and, handing the princess up the broad marble staircase, I took formal possession, as a crowned King, of the House of my ancestors, and sat down at my own table, with my cousin on my right hand, on her other side Black Michael, and on my left his Eminence the Cardinal. Behind my chair stood Sapt; and at the end of the table, I saw Fritz von Tarlenheim drain to the bottom his glass of champagne rather sooner than he decently should.

      I wondered what the King of Ruritania was doing.