“But,” Deirdre exploded, “I have not done a thing.”
“You know, my one treasure, that everything I say is for your good, and when I counsel you it is because I consider you need just that counsel. You are distraught to-day, my bud of the branch, and there is no reason why you should not be as calm to-day as you were yesterday or any day. This is only to-day, but to-morrow will come and to-day will be forgotten.”
“I do not understand in the least——” Deirdre began.
“There is nothing to understand, my beloved. There is not a reason in the world why you should be troubled. Sit now at your embroidery, and do not leave it until I give permission.”
Deirdre was indeed excited, but Lavarcham had not the smallest perception of this: nor was it visible. It was a very intimate excitement, which could be brooded and enjoyed as well over a piece of embroidery as in any other way. And Lavarcham watched her, sensing nothing of that deep agitation and memory and dream.
I was wise, she thought, not to tell the news, for the child seems even more beautiful to-day than she has ever seemed before. She has slept well.
While they were thus sitting a servant hurried into the room, with her eyes bolting from her head, and a gabble on her lips which Lavarcham only repressed by ferocity, for she surmised at once that the king had arrived, and she did not even yet wish Deirdre to know of the visit.
She rose and precipitated herself against the servant.
“Is that how you enter a room, ill-bred slave? Was it among the cattle that you learned manners? Begone at once,” she cried, “and do not come into a room again until you have asked and received permission to enter. What is the world coming to?” she continued angrily as she hustled the servant through the door and down the corridor.
“It’s the son of Ness——” the servant babbled.