“My lord,” he called, “my lord—”
Then Beatrice saw a tall ecclesiastic, clean-shaven, with a strangely insignificant but kindly face, with square drooping lip and narrow hazel eyes, come forward in his prelate’s dress; and at the sight of him her eyes grew hard and her lips tight.
“My lord,” said Cromwell, “this is Mistress Beatrice Torridon.”
The prelate put out his hand, smiling faintly, with the ring uppermost to be kissed. Beatrice stood perfectly still. She could see Ralph at an angle looking at her imploringly.
“You know my Lord of Canterbury,” said Cromwell, in an explanatory voice.
“I know my Lord of Canterbury,” said Beatrice.
There was a dead silence for a moment, and then a faint whimper from the maid.
Cranmer dropped his hand, but still smiled, turning to Ralph.
“We must be gone, Mr. Torridon. Master Cromwell has very kindly—”
Cromwell, who had stood amazed for a moment, turned round at his name.