amusement was his greatest need and aim in life.

Mary and I went to London to see the king, having landed at
Southampton for the purpose of throwing off the scent any one who
might seek the ship. The king was delighted to see his sister, and
kissed her over and over again.

Mary had as hard a game to play as ever fell to the lot of woman, but
she was equal to the emergency if any woman ever was. She did not give
Henry the slightest hint that she knew anything of the Count of Savoy
episode, but calmly assumed that of course her brother had meant
literally what he said when he made the promise as to the second
marriage.

The king soon asked: "But what are you doing here? They have hardly
buried Louis as yet, have they?"

"I am sure I do not know," answered Mary, "and I certainly care less.
I married him only during his life, and not for one moment afterwards,
so I came away and left them to bury him or keep him, as they choose;
I care not which."

"But--" began Henry, when Mary interrupted him, saying: "I will tell
you--"

I had taken good care that Wolsey should be present at this interview;
so we four, the king, Wolsey, Mary and myself, quietly stepped into a
little alcove away from the others, and prepared to listen to Mary's
tale, which was told with all her dramatic eloquence and feminine
persuasiveness. She told of the ignoble insults of Francis, of his
vile proposals--insisted upon, almost to the point of force--carefully
concealing, however, the offer to divorce Claude and make her queen,
which proposition might have had its attractions for Henry. She told
of her imprisonment in the palace des Tournelles, and of her deadly
peril and many indignities, and the tale lost nothing in the telling.
Then she finished by throwing her arms around Henry's neck in a
passionate flood of tears and begging him to protect her--to save her!
save her! save her! his little sister.

It was all such perfect acting that for the time I forgot it was
acting, and a great lump swelled up in my throat. It was, however,
only for the instant, and when Mary, whose face was hidden from all
the others, on Henry's breast, smiled slyly at me from the midst of
her tears and sobs, I burst into a laugh that was like to have spoiled
everything. Henry turned quickly upon me, and I tried to cover it by
pretending that I was sobbing. Wolsey helped me out by putting a
corner of his gown to his eyes, when Henry, seeing us all so affected,
began