Not again that evening did Sir Ronald find even three minutes’ leisure to devote to Lady Hermione. She was the belle of the ball, the queen of the _fête_, always surrounded by a little court of admirers, the center of all homage. Yet he was content. “She cares for me,” he said to himself, over and over again; “she was not angry when I kissed her face. She is so dainty, so pure, so sweet, that if she had not meant that I should love her she would have rebuked me with proud words. She loves me, and when I ask her to be my wife, she will not say me nay.” And the very thought caused his heart to beat high with triumph, made his whole soul overflow with happiness, and while he stood there he saw Miss Severn looking at him with wistful eyes. It struck him at once how entirely he had forgotten her, and he hurried across the ballroom. The beautiful, passionate face seemed to glow with new life as he bowed to her. “I thought your majesty had forgotten Queen Jane,” she said, with all the music of reproach and love in her voice. “I must plead guilty to the charge of losing my interests in one,” he replied, “and yet I cannot accuse myself of forgetting you.” He meant nothing but the most idle of words, such as no one could refrain from speaking to a beautiful woman, who flattered him with her preference. “I must not be hard upon you, remembering you had six queens to love,” she said. “Complete the pardon by giving me the next dance,” said Sir Ronald, and she gladly consented. They stood together before a rich cluster of white hyacinths, a flower of which she was especially fond. Suddenly she looked in Sir Ronald’s face. “Speaking seriously,” she said, “and remembering history, do you believe that King Harry ever loved Jane Seymour as much as he did Anne Boleyn?” “Speaking seriously, as you say, Miss Severn, I am inclined to think--yes; he did. She never displeased him; she died before she had time to offend him; she increased his importance by leaving him a son and heir.” “But,” interrupted Clarice, “how passionately he loved that beautiful Anne; how he wooed her, how he pursued her--what thousands of tender words he must have lavished on her!” “Words are but empty sounds,” he interrupted. “And you believe, after all, that passion of devotion--after defying all Europe for her sake--that he loved Queen Jane the best?” “I have not thought much about the matter, but from rapidly thinking over all I remember of the subject, I should say, yes, he cared most for Jane.” It pleased her to read a hidden meaning in his words of which he was most entirely unconscious. He had for the moment even forgotten how the historical characters were distributed; but Clarice Severn gathered up all these words, and placed them in her heart; she pondered over them, and they made for a few short days the music of her life.