“In London—­or at Windsor?”

A faint shade of concern came into her eyes, and De Lacy’s thoughts instantly recurred to the scene in the Duke’s chamber the day he arrived.

“At Windsor, let us hope; the roads are charming there,” she said, and then she resumed her embroidery.

“Be seated, sirs,” she commanded.

“Come hither, Sir Aymer de Lacy,” called the Lady Mary, who was sitting beside the Countess of Clare. . .  “It just occurred to me to-day that I heard of you a year or so ago from a friend in France.”

“It seems to me,” said De Lacy, taking the low stool at her feet, “that I have a sure quarrel with your memory, either because it is laggard or because it is not.”

“And which do you think it is?” she asked.

“I might guess the better if I knew your friend’s name.”

“Marie.”

“Half the women of France are Maries.”

“You were then at Blois.”

“At the Court, you mean?”

She nodded.  “And but lately returned from an expedition into Navarre.”

De Lacy shook his head.  “I cannot guess.”

She gave him a knowing smile.  “Who of the Princess Margaret’s maids, think you, it might have been?”

“It might have been any one of three,” he said, “but I will guess Mademoiselle d’Artois.”

“At last!  At last! . . .  How rapidly your mind works under pressure.  I wonder, sir, if you will remember us so promptly a year hence.”

“Suppose we wait and see,” De Lacy answered, and tried to catch the Countess’ eye, but failed.  Indeed, save for a quick smile of greeting when he joined them, she had given him not a single glance, but had kept her head bent over her needle.

Lady Mary drew down her pretty mouth.  “If you can forget Marie d’Artois so soon, what chance have we?” she asked.

“But I have not forgotten her; we were quite too good friends for that.”

“And she was quite too fascinating,” the Lady Mary laughed.

“Aye, and quite too beautiful.”

“Goodness, Beatrix, listen to the man,” she exclaimed.  “He has the bad taste to praise one woman, to another.”

The Countess looked up.  “Sir Aymer was lauding Mademoiselle d’Artois to me, last night,” she said.

“Can it be, Lady Mary,” De Lacy asked, “you do not know that two months since, Marie d’Artois was wedded to the Duc de Boiselle?”

For a moment Lady Mary was taken aback; then she laughed gayly and arose.

“I will leave you to discuss the other two Maries,” she said, and moved away. . .  “Perhaps they, too, are married,” she added, over her shoulder.

De Lacy looked after her contemplatively.

“I wonder,” said he, “why the Lady Mary Percy resents my preferring you to her.”

“Do you?” the Countess asked—­then held up her hand.  “Stop, sir, you may not answer—­I did but jest.”