The King stood at the door, thoughtfully reflecting on the temper of the departing Duchess. She was a maid of honour and, more than that, an emissary from his brother Louis of France. Gossip said he loved her, but it was not true, though he liked her company exceeding well when the mood suited. He regretted only the evening’s incident, with the harsher feeling it was sure to engender.
Nell stood by the fireplace, muttering French phrases in humorous imitation of her grace. Observing the King’s preoccupation, she tossed a serviette merrily at his head.
This brought his Majesty to himself again. He turned, and laughed as he saw her; for his brain and heart delighted in her merry-making. He loved her.
“What means this vile French?” she asked, with delicious suggestion of the shrug, accent and manner of her vanquished rival.
“The Duchess means,” explained the King, “that she gives a royal ball–”
“And invites me?” broke in Nell, quickly, placing her elbows upon a cask and looking over it impishly at Charles.
“And invites you not” said the King, “and so outwits you.”
“By her porters’ wits and not her own,” retorted Nell.
She threw herself into a chair and became oblivious for the moment of her surroundings.
“The French hussy! So she gives a ball?” she thought. “Well, well, I’ll be there! I’ll teach her much. Oh, I’ll be pretty, too, aye, very pretty. No fear yet of rivalry or harm for England.”