‘An egoist should not be an idealist as well,’ protested Kingston. ‘You make too pompous a song about a peddling adventuress put shamefully out of the way by a political job.’
‘Take care,’ cried Isabel. ‘When I knew her Grace, she was not a lady to be spoken lightly of. Her enemies only killed her because they did not dare to let her live. Even her worst enemies dreaded her cleverness and her courage. And her dying words must have taken the skin off her husband’s back when he heard them. The demure gentleness of them, the vitriolic irony of them! You may have been “spiteful, flighty, and undignified,” your Grace, but you were splendid, terrible, indomitable. And you must have been marvellously charming when you chose, you plain, prudish-looking creature with six fingers and the devil’s temper. There’s a Mary-wife for you, to hold the interest and curiosity of the King, while his poor good Martha of a Katherine was everlastingly saying her beads and hemming shirts.’
‘My dear Isabel, I tell you that the song of history is “Pay, pay, pay.” If you want to follow Anne Boleyn, you must follow her all along the road.’
‘My dear Kingston, history may sing “Pay, pay, pay,” but it sings to deaf ears when it tries to impose its twaddling threat on well-bred souls. Only stupid, parvenu people ever think of reckoning up the cost of anything beforehand. It’s the hall-mark of recent wealth to be sparing of its pence. One does not bother about such things. One buys first, and only asks the price when the time comes to pay the bill.’
‘And then the price may make you bankrupt.’
‘Oh no. Fate’s bills are paid in courage, and I hope one would never be bankrupt of that. I think I shall always be able to settle up. One plunges, like Queen Anne. Your Grace did not stop to haggle. You and I go boldly forward, order what we want from the Stores of Life, and don’t give a thought to discounts and reductions and Summer Sales. And then, when the time comes, we fork up with a will, and pay out our uttermost penny.’
For a moment Kingston did not answer her. He stood looking into the secretive face of the Queen. Gundred’s voice broke the silence.
‘I know where one can get them at two and six,’ she was heard remarking in her clear, level tones.
‘There’s Queen Katherine arranging the household,’ laughed Isabel, with insolent regardless frankness, ‘and here is Queen Anne ordering a crown across the counter of life. No discount asked, and only the best required.’
Kingston looked at her with rage in his eyes. She was always saying crude things like that—things that roused in him swift opposition and dislike. Yet he remained helpless, as if bound by a spell. And her indifference to everyone’s opinion was so profound, her scorn of conventions so sincere that no reproach could be brought home to her. She had no common standard for measurement by the rules of the world. One might as well have attempted to reprove a savage for going naked, or an Englishwoman for going clothed.