The slight smile still lingered on her beautiful mouth,--she pulled a spray of jasmine down from the trailing clusters around her, and set it carelessly among the folds of her lace. Sir Roger watched her with moody eyes. Could he have followed his own inclination, he would have snatched the flower from her dress and kissed it, in a kind of fierce defiance before her very eyes. But what would be the result of such an act? Merely a little contemptuous lifting of the delicate brows--a slight frown on the fair forehead, and a calm gesture of dismissal. No more--no more than this; for just as she could not be moved to love, neither could she be moved to anger. The words of an old song rang in his ears:-- She laughs at the thought of love-- Pain she scorns, and sorrow she sets aside-- My heart she values less than her broidered glove, She would smile if I died! “You are a man, Sir Roger de Launay,” she said after a pause, “And man-like, you propound any theory which at the moment happens to fit your own particular humour. I am, however, entirely of your opinion that this life is only a term of preparation, and with this conviction I desire to have as little to do with its vile and ugly side as I can. It is possible to accept with gratitude the beautiful things of Nature, and reject the rest, is it not?” “As you ask me the question point-blank, Madam, I say it is possible,--it can be done,--and you do it. But it is wrong!” She raised her languid eyelids, showing no offence. “Wrong?” “Wrong, Madam!” repeated Sir Roger bluntly; “It is wrong to shut from your sight, from your heart, from your soul the ugly side of Nature;--to shut your ears to the wants--the pains--the tortures--the screams--the tears, and groans of humanity! Oh, Madam, the ugly side has a strange beauty of its own that you dream not of! God makes ugliness as he makes beauty; God created the volcano belching forth fire and molten lava, as He created the simple stream bordered with meadow flowers! Why should you reject the ugly, the fierce, the rebellious side of things? Rather take it into your gracious thoughts and prayers, Madam, and help to make it beautiful!” He spoke with a force which surprised himself--he was carried away by a passion that seemed almost outside his own identity. She looked at him curiously. “Does the King teach you to speak thus to me?” she asked. De Launay started,--the hot colour mounting to his cheeks and brow. “Madam!” “Nay, no excuse! I understand! It is your own thought; but a thought which is no doubt suddenly inspired by the King’s actions,” she went on tranquilly; “You are in his confidence. He is adopting new measures of domestic policy, in which, perchance, I may or may not be included--as it suits my pleasure! Who knows!” Again the little musing smile crossed her countenance. “It is of the King I wish to speak to you.”