He was flushed and panting.
He flung down his racquet and got into his crimson coat.
“Did you see my lord Arlington?—passed by but now—such a face! La! something amiss.—You Frenchmen are too deep for us, Marquess.—The Duke of Orleans plays a good game—I’d like to race him, he is very light.”
He paused, and suddenly laughed in a wholly pleasant, conciliating way he had.
“You play yourself out of breath,” said Madame Lavalette, speaking in the soft tone all women used to Lord Monmouth.
“Save me!” he cried, “but it is a question of politics—I swear it, Madame, I was not meant for a statesman.—Here comes my lord Bucks.—He is very clever, Marquess, but though he made a war nearly as easily as he writes verses—he does not find making a peace as easy as playing the fiddle.”
At this his idle eye was caught by the roses and the drifting petals beneath them.
“Ah, Madame, you have slain the flowers—cruel! I would like to stick them together again—roses are rare in Holland, Madame, and the summer is nearly over.”
He gave her his sweet smile, and she answered it by one slightly mocking.
“Your Grace is very deceptive—you talk like Sir Calydor and look like the Red Cross Knight—but I fear you are but a worthless rogue after all.”