Basilea was older than the Princess, whose air of extreme gentleness further emboldened her to take, half unconsciously, a masterful tone. "I can assure Lady Sunderland that His Highness is innocent of the designs imputed to him." Mary glanced up from the rose bush; she smiled very slightly. "Why, you must go to the Prince for that assurance; I know nothing about it." Basilea stirred the gravel with her square-toed red shoe. "You must know, Madame," she said slowly, "whether you would hinder or further the Prince his projects?" Mary flushed, and the full brown eyes narrowed. "Neither you nor I," she answered, "can discuss His Highness his projects, which ever have been and will be for the good of Europe." Basilea looked at her curiously. "I fear Your Highness will think me impertinent, but," she thought of the grave words of M. D’Avaux, and the memory urged her not to be put off by the evasiveness of the Princess—"but there are strange things said in Paris and London——" "Madame de Marsac," interrupted Mary gently, "if my father hath cause to complain of me, he must send a direct messenger." Basilea felt herself rebuked. "I do not carry His Majesty’s complaints, Highness," she answered humbly. "I am but the poor engine of the fears of my Lady Sunderland, who saith that in London the Prince his name is on the lips of all the discontents, and it is feared that they might set him up as a pretender; and since that could not be if you refused your consent, it would be a great comfort to His Majesty and his faithful ministers if you would give that assurance." The Princess took a step forward, then stopped as if by an effort of self-control. "I cannot deal with these secret and underground counsels," she said firmly; "and my poor brains are not fit for business." "This is not business, Highness," urged Basilea. "Whatever you call it," demanded the Princess, "why did you undertake it?" "Because M. D’Avaux——" began Basilea, then stopped vexed; she had not meant to mention that name. "M. D’Avaux," repeated Mary, with a heightened colour; "so he hath a mind to know what I shall do if a certain crisis cometh?" Both the tone and the words seemed to betray more interest and knowledge than she had yet disclosed, and Basilea was encouraged. "M. D’Avaux is an acquaintance of mine," she said frankly. "Ah yes," replied Mary; "you are a Papist, and your husband was a Frenchman. I think that meaneth," she added courteously, "that we cannot see things the same." "Your Highness doth not desire to behold Europe embroiled in another war!" Mary answered earnestly— "There is nothing further from my wishes, and no ambition of mine," she added half wistfully, "would disturb anybody’s peace. I bless my God that I know the life I am suited to, and I thank Him that He hath given me the grace to know when I am happy." She put her hand gently on Basilea’s sleeve. "It is getting too dark to remain here, and you have not even looked at my roses!"