Charles watched her amusedly, earnestly, lovingly. The vixen had fallen unconsciously into imitating again the Duchess’s foreign ways, as an accompaniment even for her thoughts.
“Sans doute, we shall, madame” Nell muttered audibly, with much gesticulating and a mocking accent. “À mon bal! Pas adieu, mais au revoir.”
The King came closer.
“Are you ill,” he asked, “that you do mutter so and wildly act?”
“I was only thinking that, if I were a man,” she said, turning toward him playfully, “I would love your Duchess to devotion. Her wit is so original, her repartee so sturdy. Your Majesty’s taste in horses–and some women–is excellent.”
She crossed the room gaily and threw herself laughing upon the bench. The King followed her.
“Heaven help the being, naughty Nell,” he said, “who offends thy merry tongue; but I love thee for it.” He sat down beside her in earnest adoration, then caught her lovingly in his arms.
“Love me?” sighed Nell, scarce mindful of the embrace. “Ah, Sire, I am but a plaything for the King at best, a caprice, a fancy–naught else.”
“Nay, sweet,” said Charles, “you have not read this heart.”
“I have read it too deeply,” replied Nell, with much meaning in her voice. “It is this one to-day, that one to-morrow, with King Charles. Ah, Sire, your love for the poor player-girl is summed up in three little words: ‘I amuse you!’”