"Certainly they were not seen here in the days of my Lady Portsmouth," flashed Mary.
The little Portuguese winced slightly, but ignored the thrust.
"I do not blame Your Majesty," she said. "You are not so fortunate in your court as I was; the Dutch," she raised her thin shoulders in a shrug, "do not make the best of courtiers——"
"No," answered Mary impetuously; "but they make good husbands, Madam."
Catherine made no attempt to turn this hit. She put her hand to her dark throat, and her large melancholy eyes filled with tears. She answered the thought and not the words.
"I cared as much as you do, all the same;" she said, "and I shall always be a Jacobite for his—worthless—sake."
"Forgive me," murmured Mary instantly. "I had no right. But do you be charitable. I am in great trouble, Madam, and very much alone."
Catherine lifted her small olive face with a kind of defiant brightness.
"We have that loneliness in common, Madam. If you or I had an heir it would have all been different. I shall say a mass for your husband his safety. Good night, Your Majesty."
She swept her grave foreign courtsey and retired, followed by her silent duennas. Mary stood pressing her handkerchief to her lips, and felt the whole pageant of people, lights, speech, music, swing past her like reflections on troubled water—broken, scattered without substance or meaning.