“For the glory of England?” he asked himself. “True, my people are wrong. ’Tis better we remain aloof. No wars!”
He took the seat by the table, which the Duchess offered him, and scanned casually the parchment which she handed to him.
Nell peered between the curtains. Strings was close behind her.
“Bouillon’s signature for France,” mused the King. “’Tis well! No more sympathy for the Dutch, Louise, until Holland sends a beauty to our court to outshine France’s ambassador.”
He looked at Portsmouth, smiled and signed the instrument, which had been prepared, as he thought, in accordance with his wishes and directions. He then carelessly tossed the sand over the signature to blot it.
The fair Duchess’s eyes revealed all the things which all the adjectives of all the lands ever meant.
“Holland may outshine in beauty, Sire,” she said, kneeling by the King’s side, “but not in sacrifice and love.” She kissed his hand fervently.
He sat complacently looking into her eyes, scarce mindful of her insinuating arts of love. He was fascinated with her, it is true; but it was with her beauty, flattery and sophistry, not her heart.
“I believe thou dost love England and her people’s good,” he said, finally. “Thy words art wise.”
Portsmouth leaned fondly over his shoulder.