“Not?” he said, and drew in a quick breath, as if scandalized. “I see, I see. And how is she known?”
“Her name is Mary Davis.”
“Ah! Some wanton fancy of your——”
“Your Highness, I beg you to let me go.”
She broke from his too sympathetic hold, and went back from him, until a space separated them.
“Believe me,” said he gravely: “I had no wish to surprise this unhappy secret out of you.”
“I know,” she said hurriedly—“I know. But, learning it, you will be considerate—considerate and compassionate.”
“On my royal faith,” he answered. “It shall be an inviolable confidence between us. Have I not myself too good reason to sympathize with the ill-mated?”
He did not say whether on his own account or on his wife’s. Perhaps, if on hers, that ill-starred woman would have preferred his fidelity to all the sympathy in the world. But, as in such matters the feminine prejudice is always in favour of the man, so Kate, in no ways an exception to her sex, was quite prepared to accept the sentiment at its obvious significance. A faint sigh lifted her innocent bosom.
“I may not speak of that,” she said. “Is—is marriage always so unhappy?”