“I suppose not,” said Theodora, very low, and she looked out of the window.

“Love is not a passion which asks our leave if he may come or no, you see,” Hector continued, trying to control his voice to sound dispassionate and discursive—­he knew he must not frighten her.  “Love comes in a thousand unknown, undreamed-of ways.  And then he gilds the world and makes it into heaven.”

“Does he?” almost whispered Theodora.

“And think what it must have been to a queen, married to a tiresome, unattractive Bourbon—­and Fersen was young and gallant and thoughtful for her slightest good, and, from what one hears and has read, he must have understood her, and been her friend as well—­and sometimes she must have forgotten about being a queen for a few moments—­in his arms—­”

Theodora drew a long, long breath, but she did not speak.

“And perhaps, if we knew, the remembrance of those moments may have been her glory and consolation in the last dark hours.”

“Oh!  I hope so!” said Theodora.

Then she walked on quickly into the quaint, little, low-ceilinged bedroom.  Oh, she must get out into the air—­or she must talk of furniture, or curtain stuffs, or where the bath had been!

Love, love, love!  And did it mean life after all?—­since even this far-off love of this poor dead queen had such power to move her.  And perhaps Fersen was like—­but this last thought caused her heart to beat too wildly.

There were no roses now, she was very pale as she said:  “It saddens me, this.  Let us go out into the sun.”

They descended the staircase again almost in silence, and on through the little door in the court-yard wall into the beautiful garden beyond.

“Show me where she was happy, where you know she was happy before any troubles came.  I want to be gay again,” said Theodora.

So they walked down the path towards the hameau.

“What have I done?” Lord Bracondale wondered.  “Her adorable face went quite white.  Her soul is no longer the open book I have found it.  There are depths and depths, but I must fathom them all.”

“Oh, how I love the spring-time!” exclaimed Theodora, and her voice was full of relief.  “Look at those greens, so tender and young, and that peep of the sky!  Oh, and those dear, pretty little dolls’ houses!  Let us hasten; I want to go and play there, and make butter, too!  Don’t you?”

“Ah, this is good,” he said; “and I want just what you want.”

Her face was all sweet and joyous as she turned it to him.

“Let’s pretend we lived then,” she said, “and I am the miller’s daughter of this dear little mill, and you are the bailiff’s son who lives opposite, and you have come with your corn to be ground.  Oh, and I shall make a bargain, and charge you dear!” and she laughed and swung her parasol back, while the sun glorified her hair into burnished silver.