The appearance of so beautiful a young woman standing almost alone in the doorway created in a moment a little sensation. The room was crowded with lords and gentlemen, peers and peeresses; the glitter of gold, the sheen of satin and brocade, the sparkle of jewels, made a scene of varied beauty. Here were handsome men and the loveliest of England’s women; on one side stood the stately figure of a prelate, on the other some foreign ambassador; here was a gay court gallant, yonder a reverend sage. Not far from the door stood the king surrounded by his favored nobles. He was, at this time, growing very stout, but still retained much of the fine appearance of his earlier manhood. His dress of velvet and brocade was rich with gold embroidery and his breast sparkled with jewels. His great size and the natural majesty of his bearing made him an imposing figure, but he possessed a frank and cordial address which won him many friends, even in those days of treason and discontent. Beyond him, almost in the center of the room, was Queen Anne Boleyn. Mistress Betty had but one thought, and that was of this queen; and as soon as she had made her curtsy to the king, she passed on to greet Anne, with feelings of mingled curiosity and resentment for the sake of the dead Catherine. Anne Boleyn was standing in the midst of her ladies, and yellow was the prevailing color of their costumes. The queen, a young and beautiful woman, appeared as lovely as ever even in that hour of unwomanly triumph. The perfect oval of her face, the brilliance of her eyes and the beauty of her complexion had made her the star of Catherine’s court, and she was still lovely, although it seemed to many that she looked both ill and disturbed. She was dressed in yellow brocade with a train of cloth of gold trimmed with ermine, a coronet of jewels resting on her flowing curls, for she wore her hair frequently falling loose over her shoulders. She knew that Betty Carew had been in attendance at Kimbolton, and received her coldly, although with courtesy, as if she was at once displeased at the thought of her late service, and willing to win her to her own cause. The presentation was over in a few moments and Betty was led out of the royal circle by her uncle, who conducted her to the other side of the room. He took her to a group by one of the windows, and Betty found that he was introducing her to some stranger before she had yet put the queen from her thoughts. “My Lady Crabtree,” he said, “this is the niece of whom I wrote you. Will you take so great a charge, albeit not an uncomely one?” “Thou art a fool, William,” retorted a sharp voice, “to bring the wench hither.”