"His cousin, the Stadtholder of Friseland, is his heir," answered Mary, with sudden harshness.
"Ah yes; I meant no child. My husband saith it is cruel for any man and terrible for a great Prince—for how useless all seemeth with none to inherit! And such an ancient family to end so suddenly——"
Mary murmured something incoherent, of which Mrs. Marston took no notice.
"I would not be the Princess," she continued, "for her chances of a crown, would you, Madam? It is a cruel thing—I met in Utrecht a Scotswoman who had been her tirewoman, and she told me that the poor lady was like a maniac after her second hopes were disappointed and for ever——"
Mary put out her hand; her face was concealed by the deeping dusk and the shade of her hat.
"Please stop," she said, in a hard voice. "I—you do not understand—do people talk of this? God is hard, it seems—and you have children, and I pitied you. I have been too proud—but humbled enough, I think."
Her speech was so confused and broken that the English lady could make no sense of it; she stared at her in surprise.
"Why, my speech annoys you, Madam."
Mary was facing the sea again.
"No—continue—people talk of this?" She was facing the overwhelming bitterness of the discovery that her inmost anguish, which had been too sacred to take on her own lips, was matter for common gossip. It was an extraordinary shock, so carefully had the subject always been ignored before her, and yet, she told herself fiercely, she might have known that it was discussed in the very streets, for it was a matter that affected nations.