“Oh! What have I done to thee, my friend—?”
“This is no place for you, madam,” he said, coming close to her and speaking very low. “A house you have no right to enter.”
The colour flamed up again to her face.
“Nay, if you are here, milord,” she retorted, “why not I, then?”
He stood a few seconds, his dark eye upon her, deeply thinking; then, as though upon a sudden, wilful mood, a complete change came over him. The stateliness, the air of command, the something unapproachable as of one set apart, gave place to mockery, to languor. He let himself sink upon the chair that Ratcliffe had vacated; and, running his fingers through the black curls that lay on his shoulders, scrutinised her again insolently through half-closed lids.
“Lionel Ratcliffe,” quoth he then, “is a gentleman of birth and parts. And if he hath not much of this world’s goods, he hath wits, which is nigh as good. Mightest do worse, Jinny!”
“And is it for this,” cried she, laughing loudly, “that I gave up a king?” But in the midst of her laughter tears welled and ran down her cheeks.
“By the Lord Harry!” he said, wilfully hard, “but this becomes a wearisome refrain of thine! What now, Old Rowley is forgiving. Finish that packing of thine, and hie thee to Salisbury. You might still—”
She caught her kerchief from her bosom and set her teeth in it.