At which young Sidney kisses her finger-tips and bids her pay the debt in favours; for the way to the king was through the influence of Castlemaine or Portsmouth or other of the dissolute crew.

Round other tables sat men and women, old and young, playing away estate and fortune and honour at tick-tack or ombre or basset.  One noble lord was so old that he could not see to game, and must needs have his valet by to tell him how the dice came up.  On the walls hung the works of Vandyke and Correggio and Raphael and Rubens; but the pure faces of art’s creation looked down on statesmen bending low to the beck of adventuresses, old men pawning a noble name for the leer of a Portsmouth, and women vying for the glance of a jaded king.

At the far end of the apartment was a page-boy dressed as Cupid, singing love-songs.  In the group of listeners lolled the languid king.  Portsmouth sat near, fanning the passion of a poor young fool, who hung about her like a moth; but Charles was not a lover to be spurred.  As Portsmouth played her ruse the more openly a contemptuous smile flitted over the proud, dark face of the king, and he only fondled his lap-dog with indifferent heed for all those flatterers and foot-lickers and curry-favours hovering round royalty.

Barillon, the French ambassador, pricked up his ears, I can tell you, when Chaffinch, the king’s man, came back with word that His Majesty was ready to hear M. Radisson.

“Now, lad, move about and keep your eyes open and your mouth shut!” whispers M. Radisson as he left me.

Barillon would have followed to the king’s group, but His Majesty looked up with a quiet insolence that sent the ambassador to another circle.  Then a page-boy touched my arm.

“Master Stanhope?” he questioned.

“Yes,” said I.

“Come this way,” and he led to a tapestried corner, where sat the queen and her ladies.

Mistress Hortense stood behind the royal chair.

Queen Catherine extended her hand for my salute.

“Her Majesty is pleased to ask what has become of the sailor-lad and his bride,” said Hortense.

“Hath the little Puritan helped to get them married right?” asked the queen, with the soft trill of a foreign tongue.

“Your Majesty,” said I, “the little Puritan holds back.”

“It is as you thought,” said Queen Catherine, looking over her shoulder to Hortense.

“Would another bridesmaid do?” asked the queen.

Laughing looks passed among the ladies.

“If the bridesmaid were Mistress Hillary, Your Majesty,” I began.

“Hortense hath been to see them.”

I might have guessed.  It was like Hortense to seek the lonely pair.

“Here is the king.  We must ask his advice,” said the queen.

At the king’s entrance all fell back and I managed to whisper to Hortense what we had learned the night before.