“Here, I’m not a Queen to you,” said Audrey de Lisle.
“You give me orders, and reject my advice.”
“That’s not a royal prerogative. Every woman does that. But I won’t accept homage from you—not even in jest. I don’t like it.”
“You called me a courtier once,” said Christopher John.
“I take it back,” said Audrey. “I didn’t know you then.”
“Too late,” said Christopher mournfully, shaking his head. “The damage is done. You ought to be more careful. If you didn’t want my, er, homage, you should have stayed away. You came: I saw: you conquered. Now I’m your thrall. Of course I’m familiar—rather like an old nurse. I grin when I see you coming, I call you ‘Audrey’—at least, I’m going to in future—and I criticize your clothes. I also make personal remarks. I’m not sure we oughtn’t to kiss one another. For all that, I’m your thrall—Audrey.”
Audrey put a hand to her temples.
“This is terrible,” she said. “I’d no idea I was so—so compelling . . . Christopher dear.”
“Look in your glass,” said John. “The pier-glass, I mean. Not that the other won’t do, but the pier-glass’ll hit harder. What colour are the pyjamas?”
“Periwinkle blue,” gurgled Audrey.