What she failed to appreciate was that his wandering exiled life had taught him to sacrifice any private fancy or liking rather than go on his travels again. Somerset House was not only a religious centre. Wherever Henrietta was there were laughter, wit, and cheerfulness. Even in the darkest days of the past she would dry her tears to laugh at anything which struck her as droll, and now, in her old age, though sorrow and self-discipline had softened the sharpness of her tongue, her conversation had the charm of that of a witty woman who had mixed with famous people, and who had borne a principal part in the events of the age which was just passing away. Life had been to her what books are to more studious people; for, like the father whose wit she had inherited, she did not care for reading, and this, in her later life, she frankly regretted. She was now a "little, plain old woman,"[426] always quietly dressed, and worn out by trouble and ill-health; but the charm which was her cradle gift had not left her, and her Court proved much more attractive than that of her daughter-in-law, to whom nature had been less bountiful, and whose prim youth was no match for the sprightly age of the daughter of Henry IV. But the rivalry was not to be a long one. It seems that the air of England had not agreed with Henrietta, even when she was young and happy; and now her health daily became worse, until at last her physicians told her plainly that if she remained in England she would die. Perhaps she was not altogether sorry for this decision. She loved her sunny native land, and her heart yearned for her youngest and dearest child and for her nuns at Chaillot. Moreover, the troubles of her previous visit had not passed away. She bade a loving farewell to the two sons whose faces she knew she would never see again, and then made for the last time the familiar journey to Paris, where she was received with the customary kindness of the French royal family. * * * * *