William smiled at him, and seated himself on a wooden bench under one of the limes.
"That is an old complaint between us, is it not?" he said kindly. "Dear lord, let it be——"
Portland smiled also; he was not satisfied; he stirred his cane among the scattered hawthorn flowers and his fair face hardened. After a little he asked his dismissal, and turned towards Kensington House.
The King remained alone in the park, sitting a little droopingly; he hardly ever held himself erect now; he had shifted his sword-belt so that the weapon was across his knees, and he held pommel and point of the scabbard with his bare, delicate hands; his clothes were dark and plain; he wore high riding-boots and a beaver with a great plume of white feathers. So still he sat, and so shaded was his figure in the deep glowing shadow cast by the lime boughs of budding foliage, that a young man coming moodily along the path was upon him before he noticed that any sat there.
"Ah, sire!" he exclaimed, in confusion, and pulled off his hat.
William looked up at him; it was the Duke of Shrewsbury.
"I am glad to see you, my lord. I wished to speak to you."
"I was about to seek an audience of Your Majesty."
Shrewsbury was in a painful agitation, further increased by this sudden meeting with the King, utterly unlooked for. It was rare to find William at leisure or on foot.
The King's deep eyes regarded him sadly and kindly.