blushed as she recognized in the face of the insolent Venus the features of the Princess of Eboli.  Prom his accustomed chair, the King could see this painting.  Everywhere in the room there were rich objects that caught and reflected the light, things of gold and silver, of jade and lapis lazuli, in a sort of tasteless profusion that detracted from the beauty of each, and made Dolores feel that she had been suddenly transported out of her own element into another that was hard to breathe and in which it was bad to live.  It oppressed her, and though her courage was undiminished, the air of the place seemed to stifle her thought and speech.

As she entered she saw the King in profile, seated in his great chair at some distance from the fire, but looking at it steadily.  He did not notice her presence at first.  Antonio Perez sat at the table, busily writing, and he only glanced at Dolores sideways when he heard the door close after her.  She sank almost to the ground as she made the first court curtsey before advancing, and she came forward into the light.  As her skirt swept the ground a second time, Philip looked slowly round, and his dull stare followed her as she came round in a quarter of a wide circle and curtsied a third time immediately in front of him.

She was very beautiful, as she stood waiting for him to speak, and meeting his gaze fearlessly with a look of cold contempt in her white face such as no living person had ever dared to turn to him, while the light of anger burned in her deep grey eyes.  But for the presence of the Secretary, she would have spoken first, regardless of court ceremony.  Philip looked at her attentively, mentally comparing her with his young Queen’s placidly dull personality and with the Princess of Eboli’s fast disappearing and somewhat coarse beauty.  For the Princess had changed much since Titian had painted his very flattering picture, and though she was only thirty years of age, she was already the mother of many children.  Philip stared steadily at the beautiful girl who stood waiting before him, and he wondered why she had never seemed so lovely to him before.  There was a half morbid, half bitter savour in what he felt, too,—­he had just condemned the beauty’s father to death, and she must therefore hate him with all her heart.  It pleased him to think of that; she was beautiful and he stared at her long.

“Be seated, Dona Dolores,” he said at last, in a muffled voice that was not harsh.  “I am glad that you have come, for I have much to say to you.”

Without lifting his wrist from the arm of the chair on which it rested, the King moved his hand, and his long forefinger pointed to a low cushioned stool that was placed near him.  Dolores came forward unwillingly and sat down.  Perez watched the two thoughtfully, and forgot his writing.  He did not remember that any one excepting the Princess of Eboli had been allowed to be seated in the King’s study.  The Queen never came there.  Perez’ work exempted him in private, of course, from much of the tedious ceremonial upon which Philip insisted.  Dolores sat upon the edge of the stool, very erect, with her hands folded on her knees.