The King lay back in his chair.
“There is nothing more to-night, I think, Sir John.”
“Sire, I take my leave.”
“You will come with me to the continent in a few days, n’est pas? Good-evenin’, Sir John.”
The Master of Stair bowed.
“Take care of the tulip, Sir John—the other day Milor’ Devonshire ’e knock the tips off.”
William looked toward the bulbs with the interest of the born gardener; in the warmth they gave out a faint sickly fragrance, a sense of young green. “They are very well,” remarked the King with satisfaction. “If I ’ad keep them in water they would not smell so—is it not charming? Like it come through the window at Saint Loo.”
He smiled on Sir John, who bowed without a word and left the room.
As he passed down the long gallery, he met Argyll.
“Ye look miserable, my lord,” he cried with a hard laugh. “Read this.”