“You needn’t be nasty.” Félicia went to the glass and examined her face with some anxiety, but the pure creamy pallor was not yet vulgarised by any touch of red. She laughed. “Not much harm done this far, Maimie. I’ll tell you when I’m tired of Usk, any way.” “No, you won’t,” said Maimie calmly. “You’re tired of him already. It’s getting more and more of a trial to have him stick to you the way he does, but you let him do it just to make me mad. When you’re tired clear out, you can let me know.” “And you can round up a few of the kings you keep on hand, and have me choose,” responded Félicia. Now that her perplexity was at an end, Félicia was prepared to take full advantage of the situation. Queen Ernestine’s obvious difficulty in masquerading in the English household as a younger son’s wife afforded her a malicious amusement, and she could not pardon Usk for refusing to respond to the frequent glances she flashed at him. At the same time, she watched the royal lady narrowly, hoping to discover the source of the peculiarly dignified charm of manner which characterised her. Those who knew could have told Félicia that it was the outcome of a life of sadness and self-repression, crowned at last with a tardy happiness chastened by apprehension. Her own soul, however, was not sufficiently awake to note more than that the Queen seemed to do and say the right thing by instinct, and that the grace of her bearing was only equalled by her consideration for others. Knowing little of her story, Félicia was captivated by her personality--although the attraction was no bar to the entertainment she derived from seeing her in a false position--and she felt quite virtuously indignant when Maimie, by what seemed an unpardonable piece of _gaucherie_, brought a shadow into the beautiful changeful eyes.