The courtiers would shake their heads over him
in disapprobation, and then look approvingly at Wendelin, who was a true
royal child and never got his white hands dirty.
There was no doubt but that George was cast in a less aristocratic mould
than his brother. When Wendelin complained of the heat, George would
spring into the lake for a swim, and when Wendelin was freezing, George
would praise the fresh bracing air. The duchess often sighed for a
thousand eyes that she might the better look after him, and she
constantly had to scold and reprove him, whereas her other son never
heard anything but soft words from her. But then George would fly into
her arms in a most unprincely manner, and she would kiss him and hug him,
as if she never wanted to let him go, while her caresses of her elder son
were restricted to a kiss on his forehead, or to stroking his hair.
George was by no means so beautiful as his brother; he had only a fresh
boyish face, but his eyes were exceptionally deep and truthful, and his
mother always found in them a perfect reflection of what was in her own
heart.
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