When the room stirred, she laughed, but it was to conceal her vexation. She pricked her lip with her needle.
‘I see how it is with you and your friends, sir,’ she said drily. ‘You love not poor women in any wise. When we are upon thrones you call us monsters, and when we come off them you think us nothing at all. It is hard to please you. And yet—you have known women.’
‘A many,’ said he.
‘And of these some were good women?’
‘There was one, madam, the best of women.’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘Ah! You speak kindly at last! You loved my mother! Then you will love me. Is it not so?’
He was silent. This was perilous work.
‘I have sent for you, Mr. Knox,’ she continued, ‘not for dialectic, in which I can see I am no match for you; but to ask counsel of you, and require a benevolence, if you are ready to bestow it. We will talk alone of these things, if you will. Adieu, mes enfants; gentlemen, adieu. I must speak privately with Mr. Knox.’
What had she to say to him? Not he alone wondered; there was Master Des-Essars at the door—Master Des-Essars, who, with the generosity of calf-love, was prepared to surrender his rights for the good of the State. Mary Livingstone, to whom one man, lover of the Queen, was as pitiable as another, swept through the anteroom without a word for anybody. The others clustered in the bay, whispering and wondering.