Tutor is on the bed in Audrey's room, in his slovenly priest's garb, with white shirt and black trousers, his long legs crossed, his feet in Christlike sandals, reading Ovid's Metamorphoses in Latin aloud to Audrey, to as he says, "line her mind with gold." She, as usual, during the court mandated hour of Moral Instruction (in the wake of the Annie Oakley Incident), ignores him. She is sitting on the floor in her Audrey T-Shirt (emblazoned, "Own Rule Save") and faded pink corduroy pants, paging through a pictorial history of Great Britain. "Tutor," she interrupts him, "Why do they always call it a Kingdom when sometimes they have a Queen?" "I don't know, kid," he says, "but when you grow up you will you own it, and rule it, and you can call it whatever you want." "Could I call it a democracy, if I want to?" "Sure," says Tutor, "Now Great Britain has a democracy and a ceremonial queen." "But I want to be the real Queen!" "Of course," says Tutor, "then we shall have a real Queen and a ceremonial democracy." He launches into his own political theory, about the Divine Right of Kings and Queens, the Market as the Hidden Hand of God, SAT scores as indicative of a Divine Call, and the breeding and training of blood that is bluer, and truer, to our highest nature as human beings and children of God. But Audrey, her questions answered, has lost interest, and is busy teaching Rex how to sit up and beg.