"The only woman," he added, falling in once more with his friend's lighter mood, "the only woman whose blandishments His Grace of Wessex has ever been known to resist." "And that with difficulty," concluded the Duke gaily. "But you see, friend," he added with mock gravity, "with a Tudor you never can tell; you might lose your heart one day and your head the next." "Mary Tudor loves you too well . . ." protested Lord Everingham. "She is the daughter of King Harry VIII, remember, and would threaten me with the block or the rack at every indiscretion." He paused, then added quaintly-- "And I would commit so many." "A woman who loves always forgives," urged his friend. "A woman, my good Everingham, will forgive a grave infidelity--perhaps! but not a number of little indiscretions. Mine," he added with a light sigh, "would be the little indiscretions." "And while you fled from Court the Queen of England has almost promised to wed the Spanish king," said Everingham bitterly. He watched his friend keenly as he spoke and paused a moment before he added pointedly-- "'Twill be a proud day for the peers of England when they bow the knee to their Liege Lord, a foreign king." Wessex shrugged his broad shoulders and turned to where a pretty wench, dispensing ale to a scarlet-cloaked burgher, formed a picture pleasing to his artistic eye. Everingham, somewhat proud of his own diplomatic skill, had noted, however, a certain stiffening of His Grace's figure at the vision which had been conjured before him. That of a Wessex bending the knee before a Spaniard. "You were away," continued Everingham, eager to goad his friend into speech, "and my Lord Cardinal and Don Miguel know how to blow upon the flames of Mary's jealousy. Your influence can still save England, my lord," he added with great earnestness, "let not your enemies say that fear of a woman keeps you from exerting it." "H'm! do they say that?" mused Wessex quaintly, whilst a smile, which almost might be called boyish, altered the whole expression of his serious face. "By my faith! but they are right. One's enemies usually are." He drew his friend away from the immediate vicinity of a jabbering crowd, into a dark corner formed by one of the booths. Everingham, thinking that at last he had led Wessex into a graver train of thought, failed to notice the humorous twinkle of the eyes which had so palpably struggled to the surface. "It is the fear of a woman has kept me away from Court," he whispered solemnly, "but that woman is not the Queen of England." "Who is it then?" "In your ear, friend . . . 'tis the Lady Ursula Glynde." Everingham could scarce suppress a movement of intense satisfaction. Lady Ursula! beautiful, exquisite Lady Ursula was the one stumbling-block on which the schemes of his faction might become hopelessly shattered.