It seemed to grow more and more quiet in the room:  the shadow of the leaves lay still upon the floor; the drowsy humming of the bees outside the windows, the sound of locusts in the trees, the distant noises of the town,—­all grew more remote, then suddenly appeared to cease.

Audrey raised her eyes, and met the eyes of Evelyn.  She knew that they had been upon her for a long time, in the quiet of the room.  She had sat breathless, her head bowed over her work that lay idly in her lap, but at last she must look.  The two gazed at each other with a sorrowful steadfastness; in the largeness of their several natures there was no room for self-consciousness; it was the soul of each that gazed.  But in the mists of earthly ignorance they could not read what was written, and they erred in their guessing.  Audrey went not far wide.  This was the princess, and, out of the fullness of a heart that ached with loss, she could have knelt and kissed the hem of her robe, and wished her long and happy life.  There was no bitterness in her heart; she never dreamed that she had wronged the princess.  But Evelyn thought:  “This is the girl they talk about.  God knows, if he had loved worthily, I might not so much have minded!”

From the garden came a burst of laughter and high voices.  Mistress Stagg started up. “’Tis our people, Mistress Evelyn, coming from the playhouse.  We lodge them in the house by the bowling green, but after rehearsals they’re apt to stop here.  I’ll send them packing.  The hood is finished.  Audrey will set it upon your head, ma’am, while I am gone.  Here, child!  Mind you don’t crush it.”  She gave the hood into Audrey’s hands, and hurried from the room.

Evelyn sat motionless, her silken draperies flowing around her, one white arm bent, the soft curve of her cheek resting upon ringed fingers.  Her eyes yet dwelt upon Audrey, standing as motionless, the mist of gauze and lace in her hands.  “Do not trouble yourself,” she said, in her low, clear voice.  “I will wait until Mistress Stagg returns.”

The tone was very cold, but Audrey scarce noticed that it was so.  “If I may, I should like to serve you, ma’am,” she said pleadingly.  “I will be very careful.”

Leaving the window, she came and knelt beside Evelyn; but when she would have put the golden hood upon her head, the other drew back with a gesture of aversion, a quick recoil of her entire frame.  The hood slipped to the floor.  After a moment Audrey rose and stepped back a pace or two.  Neither spoke, but it was the one who thought no evil whose eyes first sought the floor.  Her dark cheek paled, and her lips trembled; she turned, and going back to her seat by the window took up her fallen work.  Evelyn, with a sharp catch of her breath, withdrew her attention from the other occupant of the room, and fixed it upon a moted sunbeam lying like a bar between the two.