He came obediently and held up his unconscious face.
Mary's lips touched his brow in the saddest salute he was ever like to know. He did not offer to return it, but made a little bow, and so left her. She sat quite still, listening to the sound of his unequal footsteps departing; then she stooped and picked up the shell he had abandoned.
She fancied that it was still warm and moist from his tight clutch, and as she looked at it the tears veiled her eyes and fell on to her trembling palm.
"O God!" she cried aloud, with a passion that had slipped her control. "Ye had no right to make childless women!"
She flung the shell from her, and buried her face in her hands, while the painful sobs heaved her body.
She had not long even the comfort of lonely weeping, for the sound of voices and footsteps coming up the narrow stairs caused her to rise heavily, with a start of self-reproach.
It was her secret boast that she had not allowed a tear or a sigh to escape her in public since the King had gone. She dried her poor tired eyes hastily, and bit her lips to steady them, while she thrust her sorrows back into her heart with that placid courage that never failed her. She descended the stairs and faced the people who were, she knew, looking for her.
She was not prepared to see Lord Nottingham, whom she had left at Whitehall; the sight of him among her attendants caused her to pause at the foot of the stairs.
"You, my lord!" she cried faintly.
His dark face showed obvious relief at her appearance.