“It was a present from the King.”
“To you? You are a friend of the King?” she asked, with some eagerness.
“I will not deceive you,” he replied. “No, not to me. The King gave it to Hilary Clairevoix, the Constable of Bellefontaine; and Hilary, who’s a careless fellow, left it lying about in his music-room, and I came along and pocketed it. It is a pretty bit of silver, and I shall never restore it to its rightful owner if I can help it.”
“But you are a friend of the King’s?” she repeated, with insistence.
“I have not that honour. Indeed, I have never seen him. I am a friend of Hilary’s; I am his guest. He has stayed with me in England—I am an Englishman—and now I am returning his visit.”
“That is well,” said she. “If you were a friend of the King, you would be an enemy of mine.”
“Oh?” he wondered. “Why is that?”
“I hate the King,” she answered simply.
“Dear me, what a capacity you have for hating! This is the second hatred you have avowed within the hour. What has the King done to displease you?”
“You are an Englishman. Has the King’s reputation not reached England yet? He is the scandal of Europe. What has he done? But no—do not encourage me to speak of him. I should grow too heated,” she said strenuously.