“I thought your majesty had forgotten Queen Jane,” she said, with all the music of reproach and love in her voice.
“I must plead guilty to the charge of losing my interests in one,” he replied, “and yet I cannot accuse myself of forgetting you.”
He meant nothing but the most idle of words, such as no one could refrain from speaking to a beautiful woman, who flattered him with her preference.
“I must not be hard upon you, remembering you had six queens to love,” she said.
“Complete the pardon by giving me the next dance,” said Sir Ronald, and she gladly consented.
They stood together before a rich cluster of white hyacinths, a flower of which she was especially fond. Suddenly she looked in Sir Ronald’s face.
“Speaking seriously,” she said, “and remembering history, do you believe that King Harry ever loved Jane Seymour as much as he did Anne Boleyn?”
“Speaking seriously, as you say, Miss Severn, I am inclined to think—yes; he did. She never displeased him; she died before she had time to offend him; she increased his importance by leaving him a son and heir.”
“But,” interrupted Clarice, “how passionately he loved that beautiful Anne; how he wooed her, how he pursued her—what thousands of tender words he must have lavished on her!”
“Words are but empty sounds,” he interrupted.