There was the queerest, brightest twinkle in Annabel’s eyes as she studied me. In astonishment I glanced at Christopher. The look with which he met mine was one of benevolent kindness.
“Dear old Christopher!” came softly from the other room; then, after a pause, “How can Mr. Tudor manage without you?”
“He can’t, ma’am.” He made the audacious answer while calmly regarding me.
Can it be believed that I dared not see Lentala’s challenge, and that something which I could not master held me a silent fool in the chair? Surely there must be men besides me whom love makes humble and timid. I have seen men love with a different measure; I have seen love make them bold and reckless.
Christopher had adroitly seated me with my back to the curtain. Hence I did not see a signal that Annabel, who was facing it, must have received, for with some excuse she withdrew, taking Christopher.
The queen’s voice was close to the curtain as she called in a breathless, frightened way, “Choseph!”
“Your Majesty.”
Before I could rise she was on me like a whirlwind, clapping her hands over my eyes from behind and pressing me down into the seat. Her cheek rested on my head. I thought the beating of my heart would suffocate me.
During the silence I sat in a trance. One soft hand held my eyes closed; the other slipped down and was pressed on my lips. I knew that Beela had come back, and I would submit to any outrage from her.
“Choseph,” she said in her sweet, coaxing voice, “sit still and don’t try to speak. You are much more interesting when you don’t talk. And then, I don’t want to be interrupted, for I’m going to tell you a story. It is about two girls and a man. Nod if you want to hear it.”