She dipped him a demure little curtsey.
“Fanchette Becquet, at your service, monsieur. I am her Highness’s confidential maid.”
“She is prettily served, Fanchette.”
“And handsomely, I am sure, monsieur. You see I return the compliment.”
He laughed again at her insolence—and checked himself suddenly.
“What on earth do you mean by that?”
“O!” she said innocently: “do you not love my mistress? Everybody loves her.”
He breathed again. There was safety in generalisations.
“If everybody loves her, then I suppose I must,” he said.
She clapped her pink hands.