He well believed that Elizabeth’s notice of De la Forêt was but a fancy that would pass, as a hundred times before such fancies had come and gone; but against that brighter prospect there lay the fact that never before had she shown himself such indifference. In the past she had raged against him, she had imprisoned him, she had driven him from her presence in her anger, but always her paroxysms of rage had been succeeded by paroxysms of tenderness. Now he saw a colder light in the sky, a grayer horizon met his eye. So at every corner of the compass he played for the breaking of the spell. Yet as he now bowed low before Angèle there seemed to show in his face a very candor of surprise, of pleasure, joined to a something friendly and protective in his glance and manner. His voice insinuated that by-gones should be by-gones; it suggested that she had misunderstood him. It pleaded against the injustice of her prejudice. “So far from home!” he said, with a smile. “More miles from home,” she replied, thinking of never-returning days in France, “than I shall ever count again.” “But no, methinks the palace is within a whisper,” he responded. “Lord Leicester knows well I am a prisoner, that I no longer abide in the palace,” she answered. He laughed lightly. “An imprisonment in a Queen’s friendship. I bethink me, it is three hours since I saw you go to the palace. It is a few worthless seconds since you have got your freedom.” She nettled at his tone. “Lord Leicester takes great interest in my unimportant goings and comings. I cannot think it is because I go and come.” He chose to misunderstand her meaning. Drawing closer, he bent over her shoulder. “Since your arrival here my only diary is the tally of your coming and going.” Suddenly, as though by an impulse of great frankness, he added, in a low tone: