Ursula had just uttered an energetic and momentous—
"My lord! . . ."
She had stepped away from him and was looking him fearlessly in the face, resolved to question and cross-question until she understood everything, when the door was suddenly opened and Mary Tudor appeared, escorted by some of her ladies, and accompanied by His Eminence the Spanish envoy.
It was the stroke of a relentless sword across the Gordian knot which she had sought to unravel. She had only just made up her mind to stake her all upon a final throw of the dice—an explanation with Wessex. He was still completely deceived. She could see that what she already more than guessed he had not even begun to suspect. The idea of a gigantic misunderstanding had not yet entered his brain; she would have brought it before him, made him understand. . . . And fate suddenly said, No!
Fate, or that cruel hand which pulled the strings that brought all puppets forward on this momentous stage? The Cardinal had darted a quick, anxious look on Wessex and then had smiled with satisfaction. Ursula caught both look and smile, and also that sudden hardening of the Cardinal's clever face, and knew that her last chance had gone.
Wessex had seemed relieved when the Queen entered, and Ursula knew that never again would she be allowed to see him alone, never again would she be able to speak to him undisturbed.
"Nothing flies more quickly than an illusion when it is on the wing!"
Nothing! . . . save happiness . . . when it begins to slip slowly away, and tired hands are too weak to retain it.