Behind her a glory of coloured glass cast blue and crimson and gold light over the smooth panelled-wood walls of the little room, over the bent figure of the Princess in her trailing, untidy gown of white and black Venetian velvet, and over the crudely coloured and grotesquely pictured faces of the cards she was arranging with such care.
On a stool near her, but out of the stream of light, sat Rénèe, her brown dress scarcely distinguishable from the panelling and the shadows, but her fair face, her vivid hair, brilliant above the plain linen of her small ruff.
William paused on seeing the two women. Anne glanced up and then down again without saying a word; Rénèe rose and curtsied. The Prince hesitated a moment, then crossed to his wife and laid his hand on her shoulder.
"Ma mie," he said gently, "what occupation is this for you?"
"I am telling my fortune," returned Anne, "in the hope that the future may be fairer than the past; I am telling little Anne's fortune, in the hope it may be better than mine."
"Why in this public place?" asked the Prince.
Anne violently threw down the two cards she held and rose.
"Because I am tired of my rooms! I am tired of everything! Why do you interfere in my movements?"
William caught her small, hot, and feeble hand.
"If you would live more in accord with me I could make life sweeter for you," he said almost wistfully.