His words, however, remained with Isabel. Plainly, she was weary of the Jester. Body and soul she saw him hers; there was no longer aught to gain. Also she misliked very heartily the dumb pleading of his eyes. Weariness turned to impatience, impatience to something akin to anger. What right had he to stir compunction in her? Her favours were her own to give or withhold at will. Given, they must be received with gratitude; withheld, there must be no whining. Yet Peregrine had never whined; he had, however, looked with the eyes of a dumb dog. Sitting in her chamber she brooded somewhat sullenly on the matter. After some space a thought came to her, gradually crystallizing. Bonaventure might perchance aid her in dealing with the affair. Here she calculated briefly, lightly. It would entail a slight wandering from the truth. What then? Truth it happened was of less consideration to her than ease of mind. From the one thought she turned to others. They followed each other quickly. Purposing to wrong the Jester, hatred followed swiftly in its train. There is ever but a step between the two. Her revolution of feeling towards him being sudden was proportionately strong. It brought ice to her heart, not heat. This is the more dangerous, since with it there is no surcharging of the brain to unbalance thought. Briefly, she would say to Bonaventure, “Rid me of this man,” yet employ not those words at all. Her request simply put in other fashion it would remain to see if he accepted it with a like simplicity, if a dealing that smacks very surely of meanness may be termed simple. Being alone with the Count she spoke to him very levelly. “A while ago you mentioned our long-faced Jester.” “Truly, Madam, I did,” replied Bonaventure, “yet have small desire to mention him again. I had as lief dwell on an east wind blight.” Isabel smiled, then sighed. “An’ my father had not given him the post I would have none of him. In his absence I like not to oust his servants.” A very dutiful daughter, she sighed more deeply. “You would an’ you could?” he queried. “He hath done no ill,” said Isabel musing. “’Tis wrong of me thus to mislike him, and foolish truly, since why should I concern myself with the fellow at all? Yet ’tis, as you say, the east wind blight that causes me to shiver.” Bonaventure smiled. Truly the transparency of her desire was very patent. An’ he would he saw himself giving aid in the matter. Considering a brief space he decided to take it in hand, this rather from light mischief than any ill-will towards Peregrine. “Truly, as you say,” said he solemn-faced, “the fellow has done no ill. ’Twere unjust to hold him to account for a long visage and a hang-dog look. He is also a peaceable man.” “Very peaceable,” averred Isabel.