"I am glad."
Something in her conscious unconsciousness made him ask quickly, "Wherefore?"
"Because they call me Queen of Women, sire, and the Queen should please the King," she answered demurely.
"Thou hast a ready wit, child. Dost wish to be a Queen?"
There was not a trace of sauciness in her quick reply. "It depends, sire, upon the King."
Akbar felt completely taken aback; he recognised in this slender little maid-ling of twelve, the germs of something that might grow to greatness indeed.
"I am a churl, lady," he said at last, "to keep Beauty standing. Seat yourself so, beside me, and we can talk. Or stay!" A whimsical smile irradiated his face, he put out his hand to lead her to the throne-divan. "Sit thou upon the seat of Majesty, and I will sit at Beauty's feet. I have much to learn from it."
She did not even protest. She took her place with childish dignity, and waited for him to speak. Frankness seemed the only possible approach, so he plunged at once in medias res.
"Lady, dost thou love my son Salîm?"
The cupid's-bow of her lips smiled over a cold definite "No."