"She takes a queer way to show it then," she retorted, her foot beating a tattoo on the stones.
He smothered a laugh. "Shall we walk?" he asked.
He got a shrug and a louder tattoo.
"Since the Queen has left me to your tender mercies," she said coldly, "I am at your service."
They walked in silence; he smiling; she stern-eyed and face straight to the fore.
"Does it occur to you, my lady," he said after a while, "that you are a bit unjust?"
The small head lifted higher … then presently, with rising inflection: "Unjust—to whom?"
"To the Queen."
"I am sorry."
"And unjust to me also."