“At St. Germains! The wretch! Mrs. Smollett, your devotion to Her Majesty in this matter shall not go unrewarded. I can promise you that. They hope to seize the Queen! Merciful heaven! Are they fools enough to fancy that that act would further their ends? Ah, shall I now be avenged upon mine enemies who whisper to Her Majesty! And you, Smollett--you will bless the day you wrote to me.” “Not so loud, your Grace,” whispered the actress. “There may be those at hand that we know not of. This is where your grace must be in hiding.” She led the Duchess up the studio to the curtain that hung across the retiring room. “Your Grace will be entirely hid in the recess of the door, and unless I am far mistaken you shall hear more than you ever expected. Now, madam, for God's sake remain fast hid behind the curtain. I shall return to my household duties lest I should be suspected.” “You will bless this day,” whispered Her Grace from behind the _portière_. Mrs. Barry put her finger to her lips as she noiselessly unlocked the door leading to the domed hall and then passed through. She hastily removed all traces of her disguise, placing the wig and apron behind a marble pedestal that bore a reproduction of the flying Mercury. She paused at the door for some time before returning to the studio, and when at last she opened it she did so very cautiously, putting her head just beyond the _portière_ at first. Then she closed the door behind her and advanced. She did not fail to notice the little movement of the curtain at the farther end of the studio. Then she gave a fine sigh and threw herself into a chair. “Heigh ho!” she said, in a tone that she meant to be audible in every part of the room. “Heigh ho! 't is weary waiting for one's love. But my love--my hero--is worthy to be waited for by empresses. Yet, if I had not his picture to look upon now I vow I should feel melancholic. Ah, Sir Godfrey. He has dealt as harshly with the face of my Duke as he hath dealt gently with that ancient harridan, the Duchess.” (She saw the distant _portière_ quiver.) “Great heavens!” she continued, rising and standing in front of the portrait of the Duchess. “Great heavens! is it a matter of wonder that His Grace should be sick unto death of that face of hers? All the flattery of the painter cannot hide the malevolence of her countenance. The Queen perceived it long ago, and yet they say that she hopes to regain the favour of her royal mistress! “Poor creature! But indeed she is to be pitied. She hath lost the favour of her Queen and the heart of her spouse. Ah, my hero--my beloved--your heart is mine--all mine. How oft have I not heard your sweet words telling me that--how oft? But why are you not here to tell it to me now? Why--ah, at last--at last!” A knock had sounded at the side door in the midst of her passionate inquiries, and she almost flew to the door, “Ah, at last--at last you have come!” she said in a fervent whisper as the Duke entered.