A little behind her, his hand upon the curtain, De Mauvissière bent his stately head to listen deferentially to some word she had flung at him over her shoulder. Behind him Sir Francis Walsingham was folding a scrap of paper, which anon he handed to Crofts, frowning in the background. Sir Francis' unfathomable, rather sad eyes, seemed to embrace everyone in the gallery. They rested thoughtfully on Beauvallet for a moment, but he made no sign. De Mauvissière bent to kiss the Queen's hand. She was tapping her foot, and her eyes snapped dangerously. Her ladies, being familiar with the signs, knew some misgivings. De Mauvissière went out backwards, bowing; the Queen nodded, and still tapped with one foot. She was out of temper, flashed an angry glance at her two ministers, and hunched a pettish shoulder. Walsingham crooked a long finger. His royal mistress must be diverted: not Hatton, not Raleigh, whom she might see every day, would serve. Sir Nicholas Beauvallet was come in a good hour. "God's Death!" swore her Grace, "It seems I am right well entreated!" There was a quick step; a gentleman was on his knee before her, and dared to look up, twinkling, into her face. "God's Death!" swore her Grace again, hugely delighted. "Beauvallet!" Well, he had her hand to kiss, got a rap over the knuckles from her fan, and was bidden rise up. The storm had passed over; her Grace was happily diverted. Walsingham might hide a quiet smile in his beard; Sir James Crofts could banish his worried frown. "Ha, rogue!" said her Grace, showing teeth a little discoloured in a smile of great good-humour. "So you return again!" "As a needle to the magnet, madam," Sir Nicholas said promptly. She leaned on his arm, and took a few steps with him down the gallery. "What news do ye bring me of my good cousin of Spain?" "Alack, madam, to my sure knowledge he hath lost three good ships: a carrack, and two tall galleons." Her bright eyes looked sidelong at him. "So! So! To whom fell they a prey?" "To a rogue, madam. One named Beauvallet." She burst out laughing. "I swear I love thee well, my merry ruffler!" She beckoned up Walsingham, and gave him the news. "What must we do with him, Sir Francis?" she demanded. "Ask of me, my rogue, and ye shall have." She awaited his answer without misgiving for well she knew that he was in need of naught, but was come instead to enrich her coffers. "Two boons, madam, I crave on my knees." "God's Son! This is churlish-sounding, by my faith! Name 'em then." "The first is that your Grace will accept of a New Year's gift I am come so tardily to offer--a trifle of rubies, no more. The second is that your Grace will give me leave to travel into France for a space." That did not please her so well. She frowned over it, and would know more. "I vow I'll give you a place about the Court," she said.