"Why did they have to come just now and spoil my holiday?"
She spoke as though unconscious that her musings were finding voice, and
the half-whispered words were wistful. Benton took a step nearer and
bent impulsively forward.
"What is it?" he anxiously questioned.
She only looked intently into the coals with trouble-clouded eyes and
shook her head. He could not tell whether in response to his words or to
some thought of her own.
Dropping on one knee at her feet, he gently covered her hands with his
own. He could feel the delicate play of her breath on his forehead.
"Cara," he whispered, "what is it, dear?"
She started, and with a spasmodic movement caught one of his hands, for
an instant pressing it in her own, then, rising, she shook her head with
a gesture of the fingers at the temples as though she would brush away
cobwebs that enmeshed and fogged the brain.
"Nothing, boy." Her smile was somewhat wistful. "Nothing but silly
imaginings." She laughed and when she spoke again her voice was as light
as if her world held only triviality and laughter. "Yet there be
important things to decide. What shall I wear for dinner?"
"It's such a hard question," he demurred. "I like you best in so many
things, but the queen can do no wrong--make no mistake."
A sudden shadow of pain crossed her eyes, and she caught her lower lip
sharply between her teeth.
"Was it something I said?" he demanded.
"Nothing," she answered slowly. "Only don't say that again, ever--'the
queen can do no wrong.' Now, I must go."
She rose and turned toward the door, then suddenly carrying one hand to
her eyes, she took a single unsteady step and swayed as though she would
fall. Instantly his arms were around her and for a moment he could feel,
in its wild fluttering, her heart against the red breast of his
hunting-coat.
Her laugh was a little shaken as she drew away from him and stood,
still a trifle unsteady. Her voice was surcharged with self-contempt.
"Sir Gray Eyes, I--I ask you to believe that I don't habitually fall
about into people's arms. I'm developing nerves--there is a white
feather in my moral and mental plumage."
He looked at her with grave eyes, from which he sternly banished all
questioning--and remained silent.
They passed out into the hall and, at the foot of the stairs where their
ways diverged, she paused to look back at him with an unclouded smile.