“She will be present at them,” said Henry, “but I have my own reasons,” he added significantly, “for not wishing her to appear as queen on this occasion.”
“Whatever may be your reasons, the wish is sufficient for me,” said Anne. “Nay, will you tarry a moment with me? It is long since we have had any converse in private together.”
“I am busy at this moment,” replied Henry bluffly; “but what is it you would say to me?”
“I would only reproach you for some lack of tenderness, and much neglect,” said Anne. “Oh, Henry! do you remember how you swore by your life—your crown—your faith—all that you held sacred or dear—that you would love me ever?”
“And so I would, if I could,” replied the king; “but unfortunately the heart is not entirely under control. Have you yourself, for instance, experienced no change in your affections?”
“No,” replied Anne. “I have certainly suffered severely from your too evident regard for Jane Seymour; but, though deeply mortified and distressed, I have never for a moment been shaken in my love for your majesty.”
“A loyal and loving reply,” said Henry. “I thought I had perceived some slight diminution in your regard.”
“You did yourself grievous injustice by the supposition,” replied Anne.
“I would fain believe so,” said the king; “but there are some persons who would persuade me that you have not only lost your affection for me, but have even cast eyes of regard on another.”
“Those who told you so lied!” cried Anne passionately. “Never woman was freer from such imputation than myself.”