It was he, her husband; it never occurred to her to doubt it; the height, the figure, were sufficient, not to speak of the damning token in his hat. And, once assured, she hardly looked his way, I think. And yet, so susceptible is jealousy to false witness, it was not my lord at all, but the Duke of York.
He came up to her where she stood, and, gazing intently through his mask, waited silently a while. And then he sighed, with extreme audibility. Still, she vouchsafed him no recognition or encouragement, but stood as cold and motionless as one of the white lilies in the bed beyond. He was forced at last into taking the initiative.
“Not one word, madam,” said he, “to him that wears your favour? Will you not reassure my anxiety?”
He was aware of the faintest odd response to this appeal; it might have been a whispered note of exultation.
“For whom, sir,” she said, still white, still inflexible, “do you take me?”
“Ah!” he said, “is not that bow in your bosom sufficient answer?”
With a quick, fierce action, she pulled the vizard from her face, looked him in the eyes one moment, and, replacing it, half turned her back on him.
“Now,” she said, “are you satisfied of your error?”
“Satisfied,” said he, “but not of my error, for indeed there is none.” And, indeed, there was none, from his point of view.
She turned on him irresistibly, unable to control her indignation—