f you could."

"I can."

"Till you meet another woman."

"It is not in the other woman that my danger lies."

Beatrix frowned, and the Queen laughed.

"The Countess seems to know your failings, Sir Aymer," she said, "and
may be this is a good time for you to know them, too. Nay, Beatrix,
you need not accompany me. . . I am going to the Chapel. Do you take
Sir Aymer in hand and bring him out of his French habits, since you do
not like them. For my part, I think them very charming."

"Surely she loves you," said De Lacy, when the Queen had gone.

The Countess gave him her shoulder.

"She takes a queer way to show it then," she retorted, her foot beating
a tattoo on the stones.

He smothered a laugh. "Shall we walk?" he asked.

He got a shrug and a louder tattoo.

"Since the Queen has left me to your tender mercies," she said coldly,
"I am at your service."

They walked in silence; he smiling; she stern-eyed and face straight to
the fore.

"Does it occur to you, my lady," he said after a while, "that you are a
bit unjust?"

The small head lifted higher . . . then presently, with rising
inflection: "Unjust--to whom?"

"To the Queen."

"I am sorry."

"And unjust to me also."

No answer--only a faint toss of the ruddy tresses.

"And to me also," he repeated.

She surveyed him ignoringly--and turned away, eyebrows lifted.

De Lacy smiled and waited.

Presently she gave him a quick, sidelong glance. He was gazing idly
toward the river. . . Again she looked . . . and again--each time a
trifle more deliberately. . . Finally she faced him.

"You are unusually disagreeable to-day," she said.

"I am sorry," he answered instantly. "I do not wish to be."

It was so contrary to what she had expected that she halted in sheer
surprise.

"I wonder," she said musingly. . . "I wonder . . ." then she laughed
forgivingly. "Come, let us cease this constant banter. We have been
at it ever since we met, and it profits nothing to our friendship."

"With all my heart," he exclaimed, taking her hand and pressing it with
light fingers.

She drew it away sharply.

"Do you think that a fitting way to begin?"

"Your pardon," he said softly; "I fear I did not think."

She looked at him with quick scrutiny.

"We islanders are not given to impulse, Sir Aymer, and do not trust it
deeply. I forgive you--but . . . not again."

"By St. Denis! I seem to blunder always," he said sadly. "I please
you i