‘Shame, sir! Shame, Mr. Secretar! Fie! Queens must not dote.’
It was characteristic of the relation between this pair that the master was always leading the man into admissions and professing to be cut to the soul by them. But Mr. Secretary had the habit of allowing for it. ‘I withdraw the word, my lord. Maybe I know nothing. Who am I, when all’s said, to judge?’
The Earl lowered his eyelids until they fluttered over his eyes like two white moths. ‘How stand you with the Fleming, Lethington? How stand you there? Can she make no judge of you?’
It was the stroke too much. The stricken creature flinched; and then something real came out of him. ‘Ah, my good lord,’ he said, with dignity in arms for his secret honour, ‘you shall please to consider me there as the suitor of an honest lady, and very sensible of the privilege.’
Lord Moray opened his eyes, stood up and held out his hands. ‘I ask your pardon, Mr. Secretar—freely I ask it of you. Come—enough of weary business. Crave an audience for me. I will go to the Queen.’
Mr. Secretary kissed his patron’s hand. ‘My prince shall forgive his servant——’
‘Oh, man, say no more!’
‘——and accept his humble duty. I will carry your lordship to the Queen. Will you first see the Italian?’
Quickly his lordship changed his face. ‘Why should I see the Italian? What have I to do with him? Mr. Secretar, Mr. Secretar, let every man do cheerfully his own office, so shall the state thrive.’
He had the air of quoting Scripture.