"The Queen! The Queen love me! Are you beside yourself?"
"Not at all," answered the young girl, quietly; "it is the talk of the court. They say that the King is jealous of you."
She laughed—gayly, this time, for she saw that he really had had no idea of the truth. Then she grew grave all at once, for it occurred to her that she had perhaps made a mistake in putting the idea into his head.
"At least," she said, as if correcting herself, "that is what they used to say last year."
"You are quite mad," he said, without a smile. "I cannot imagine how such an absurd idea could have suggested itself to you. In the first place, the Queen would never look at a poor Englishman like me—"
"I defy any woman not to look at you," said Beatrix.
"Why?" he asked, with, curiosity.
"Is this more simplicity, or is it more dulness?"
"Both, I suppose," answered Gilbert, in a hurt tone. "You are very witty."
"Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "Wit is quite another thing."