Maxwell was proceeding to the royal apartments with certain papers which had been submitted to Mr Randolph’s inspection ere they were returned to the Queen for signature--so anxious was Mary, at this period, to keep well with her cousin of England. Elizabeth’s ambassador had taken rather a fancy, in his own selfish, easy way, to his former travelling companion, and though, of course, he would have sacrificed him without scruple, he probably liked him none the less that he could not fashion him into a tool. As Maxwell traversed the long gallery, Mistress Carmichael was proceeding in the same direction with a basket of winter roses gathered in the Abbey garden, and could not forbear blushing as deep as the reddest of them when she encountered him. Of course she was angry with herself for doing so, and naturally visited the fault on him, arguing, plausibly enough, that if he had not been there it would not have happened; therefore she turned her head steadfastly away and marched on without speaking. Hurt and irritated, he drew aside to let her pass, thus meeting her, as it were, half-way in her desire to avoid recognition. So far nothing could be simpler. If the lady did not wish to be delayed she had only to pass on without further stoppage. She did so accordingly, but by the merest accident, and the most provoking awkwardness, tilted her basket and dropped half her flowers on the floor. Of course he was compelled to assist her in picking them up; for these two were the only occupants of the gallery; so he knelt down and refilled the basket gravely without a word. ‘Thank you,’ said Mary Carmichael, with the slightest possible tremor in her voice. ‘How deftly you have done it, and how much beholden to you I am!--and--and--thank you, Mr Maxwell.’ Here was an opportunity that would have been seized by any other gallant about the court to ask, at least, for one of the roses in reward; and perhaps even Maxwell, though somewhat impatient of such follies, would have been less reserved with any other of the Maries than the one who now stood before him, still arranging her basket, and obviously in no immediate hurry to go away. He waited, however, for her to speak first. After a little hesitation, she pointed to the papers he was carrying. ‘Shall I take them for you to the Queen?’ said she, and her hand trembled as she extended it towards him. He took the pretty hand in his own, and she did not withdraw it. ‘Mistress Carmichael,’ said he, ‘I am a plain man, and I hope an honest one. I have not so many friends that I can afford to lose any for lack of courage to ask an explanation. How have I offended you of late? Tell me as frankly as I ask you, and I will take care not to transgress again.’ Her bosom heaved, and her colour went and came. ‘Offended?’ she replied; ‘and me? oh, no! What have I done to make you think so?’