"You don't seem to be clearing it up, Sir George," I responded.
After talking over some arrangements for the queen's entertainment, I said good night, and left my cousin brooding over as complicated a problem as man ever tried to solve.
The next morning I told Dorothy how her father felt with respect to the "Leicester possibility." She laughed and said:—
"I will encourage father in that matter, and," with a saucy twinkle in her eye, "incidentally I will not discourage my proud lord of Leicester. I will make the most of the situation, fear not, Malcolm."
"I do not fear," said I, emphatically.
There it was: the full-blown spirit of conquest, strong even in a love-full heart. God breathed into Adam the breath of life; but into Eve he breathed the love of conquest, and it has been growing stronger in the hearts of her daughters with each recurring generation.
"How about John?" I asked.
"Oh, John?" she answered, throwing her head contemplatively to one side. "He is amply able to protect his own interests. I could not be really untrue to him if I wished to be. It is I who am troubled on the score of infidelity. John will be with the most beautiful queen—" She broke off in the midst of her sentence, and her face became clouded with an expression of anger and hatred. "God curse her! I wish she were dead, dead, dead. There! you know how I feel toward your English-French-Scottish beauty. Curse the mongrel—" She halted before the ugly word she was about to use; but her eyes were like glowing embers, and her cheeks were flushed by the heat of anger.
"Did you not promise me, Dorothy, that you would not again allow yourself to become jealous of Queen Mary?" I asked.
"Yes, I promised, but I cannot prevent the jealousy, and I do not intend to try. I hate her, and I love to hate her."