The young people had been walking in the garden one evening.

“Let me sit by you here in the porch,” said Lawrence Egerton to Celia,—­“I want rest, for body and spirit.  I am always in a battle-field when I am talking with Isabella.  I must either fight with her or against her.  She insists on my fighting all the time.  I have to keep my weapons bright, ready for use, every moment.  She will lead me, too, in conversation, sends me here, orders me there.  I feel like a poor knight in chess, under the sway of a queen”——­

“I don’t know anything about chess,” said Celia, curtly.

“It is a comfort to have you a little ignorant,” said Lawrence.  “Please stay in bliss awhile.  It is repose, it is refreshment.  Isabella drags one into the company of her heroes, and then one feels completely ashamed not to be on more familiar terms with them all.  Her Mazzinis, her Tancreds, heroes false and true,—­it makes no difference to her,—­put one into a whirl between history and story.  What a row she would make in Italy, if she went back there!”

“What could we do without her?” said Celia; “it was so quiet and commonplace before she came!”

“That is the trouble,” replied Lawrence, “Isabella won’t let anything remain commonplace.  She pulls everything out of its place,—­makes a hero or heroine out of a piece of clay.  I don’t want to be in heroics all the time.  Even Homer’s heroes ate their suppers comfortably.  I think it was a mistake in your father, bringing her here.  Let her stay in her sphere queening it, and leave us poor mortals to our bread and butter.”

“You know you don’t think so,” expostulated Celia; “you worship her shoe-tie, the hem of her garment.”

“But I don’t want to,” said Lawrence,—­“it is a compulsory worship.  I had rather be quiet.”

“Lazy Lawrence!” cried Celia, “it is better for you.  You would be the first to miss Isabella.  You would find us quite flat without her brilliancy, and would be hunting after some other excitement.”

“Perhaps so,” said Lawrence.  “But here she comes to goad us on again.  Queen Isabella, when do the bull-fights begin?”

“I wish I were Queen Isabella!” she exclaimed.  “Have you read the last accounts from Spain?  I was reading them to the Doctor to-day.  Nobody knows what to do there.  Only think what an opportunity for the Queen to show herself a queen!  Why will not she make of herself such a queen as the great Isabella of Castile was?”

“I can’t say,” answered Lawrence.

“Queens rule in chess,” said Horace Gresham.  “I always wondered that the king was made such a poor character there.  He is not only ruled by his cabinet, bishops, and knights, but his queen is by far the more warlike character.”

“Whoever plays the game rules,—­you or Mr. Egerton,” said Isabella, bitterly; “it is not the poor queen.  She must yield to the power of the moving hand.  I suppose it is so with us women.  We see a great aim before us, but have not the power.”