“The Baroness,” Ughtred answered, “has done her best; but another hour by her side would rob me of the few wits I have left. I should like to know for what special sin I was committed to her charge.”
Marie shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly, but she did not smile.
“I am at your Majesty’s service,” she said.
Ughtred was puzzled. In what manner had he offended her?
“If my message seemed to you peremptory,” he said, “will you not ascribe it to my desire to taste the full measure of my powers? I know nothing of the privileges of a king save what I have read in books. But it seems to me that included amongst them must surely be the privilege of choosing one’s companions—and one’s friends.”
“Your Majesty,” Marie answered, “may find that a rash assumption. It may lead to disappointment. Friends are scarcely to be made in a day, or to order. You must send for some of those whom you have left behind in England.”
He looked at her, curious to know if anything lurked behind those words.
“Mine has not been the sort of life,” he said, quietly, “which leads to the making of friendships. I have been a wanderer always, and a lonely one. I had hoped to fill the empty places—here.”
There was a note of appeal in his tone—dignified, yet not in a sense without pathos. He glanced at Nicholas, but he looked first at Marie. A faint touch of colour flushed her cheeks. Her manner was visibly softened.
“I trust that your Majesty may not be disappointed,” she said. And her eyes fell before his for the first time.