A slight frown of annoyance crossed the Queen’s face. The Countess was a very charming lady; very fascinating in her own way, but her decided predilection for the sterner sex often led her to touch on dangerous ground with her Royal mistress. This time, however, she escaped the chilling retort her remark might possibly, on another occasion, have called down upon her. The Queen said nothing. She sat watching the sea,--and now and again took up her field-glass to study the picturesque coast of The Islands, which was rapidly coming into view. Teresa de Launay, the second lady in attendance on her, was reading, and, seeing her quite absorbed in her book, the Queen presently asked her what it contained. “You have smiled twice over that book, Teresa,” she said kindly;--“What is it about?” “Madam, it speaks of love!” replied Teresa, still smiling. “And love makes you smile?” “I would rather smile than weep over it, Madam!” replied Teresa, with a slight colour warming her fair face;--“But as concerns this book, I smile, because it is full of such foolish verses,--as light and sweet--and almost as cloying,--as French _fondants_!” “Let me hear!” said the Queen; “Read me a few lines.” “This one, called ‘A Canzonet’ is brief enough for your Majesty’s immediate consideration,” replied Teresa;--“It is just such a thing as a man might scribble in his note-book after a bout of champagne, when he is in love for ten minutes! He would not mean a word of it,--but it might sound pretty by moonlight!” Whereupon she read aloud:-- My Lady is pleased to smile, And the world is glad and gay; My Lady is pleased to weep;-- And it rains the livelong day! My Lady is pleased to hate, And I lose my life and my breath; My Lady is pleased to love,-- And I am the master of Death! I know that my Lady is Love, By the magical light about her; I know that my Lady is Life, For I cannot live without her! “And you do not think any man would truly mean as much love as this?” queried the Queen. “Oh, Madam, you know he would not! If he had written such lines about the joys of dining, or the flavour of an excellent cigar, they might then indeed be taken as an expression of his truest and deepest feeling! But his ‘Lady’! Bah! She is a mere myth,--a temporary peg to hang a stray emotion on!” She laughed, and her laughter rippled merrily on the air. “I do not think the men who write so easily about love can ever truly feel it,” she went on;--“Those who really love must surely be quite unable to express themselves. This man who sings about his ‘Lady’ being pleased to do this or do that, was probably trying to obtain the good graces of some pretty housemaid or chorus girl!”