"Nothing, boy." Her smile was somewhat wistful. "Nothing but silly imaginings." She laughed and when she spoke again her voice was as light as if her world held only triviality and laughter. "Yet there be important things to decide. What shall I wear for dinner?"
"It's such a hard question," he demurred. "I like you best in so many things, but the queen can do no wrong—make no mistake."
A sudden shadow of pain crossed her eyes, and she caught her lower lip sharply between her teeth.
"Was it something I said?" he demanded.
"Nothing," she answered slowly. "Only don't say that again, ever—'the queen can do no wrong.' Now, I must go."
She rose and turned toward the door, then suddenly carrying one hand to her eyes, she took a single unsteady step and swayed as though she would fall. Instantly his arms were around her and for a moment he could feel, in its wild fluttering, her heart against the red breast of his hunting-coat.
Her laugh was a little shaken as she drew away from him and stood, still a trifle unsteady. Her voice was surcharged with self-contempt.
"Sir Gray Eyes, I—I ask you to believe that I don't habitually fall about into people's arms. I'm developing nerves—there is a white feather in my moral and mental plumage."
He looked at her with grave eyes, from which he sternly banished all questioning—and remained silent.
They passed out into the hall and, at the foot of the stairs where their ways diverged, she paused to look back at him with an unclouded smile.