He smiled languidly.
"I would we had met in Holland," he answered. "I am sick for Holland, Marie."
"Already?"
He seated himself in the deep window-seat that overlooked the privy garden and she took the low stool beside, studying him wistfully for one hint of that enthusiasm and elation which she hoped would be called forth by his splendid success.
"We could not have asked God for a more happy ending," she said in a trembling voice.
"They—the English—will declare against France," he answered, but without spirit, and as if it was an effort to speak at all. "If I could get them into the field this spring——" He was interrupted by his cough, which was violent and frequent, and he flung the window open impatiently. "There is no air in this place," he continued, in a gasping voice; "their smoky chimneys and their smells are killing me; I cannot endure London."
"We need not live here," said Mary quickly.
"They think so," he returned; "'tis our post, where we are paid to be——"
The scarcely concealed bitterness with which he spoke of England was a matter of amaze and terror to Mary, in whose ears still rang the enthusiastic shouts of the people and the flatteries of the courtiers.
"But you are popular——" she began.