Did she guess what a dainty picture she made, as she stood for one moment beside the pond, her shimmering gown of delicate white glistening against a background of dark green yews, her fair hair shining like gold beneath the soft rays of the October sun? Her sweet face was bent down, earnestly intent upon consulting the flowery oracle: a delicate shadow, that soft pearly grey tone beloved of Rubens, fell upon her girlish breast, her soft round arms, the dainty hands which held the marguerite. "He loves me," she said, half audibly, "a little . . . passionately . . . not at all. He loves me . . . a little. . . ." So wrapped up was she in these important rites, that she did not hear a muffled footstep upon the gravel. The next moment she felt two firm hands upon her waist, whilst a laughing voice completed the daisy's prophecy,-- "Passionately!" She gave a little gasp, but did not immediately turn to look who the intruder was. Her woman's instinct had told her that, and then she knew--or guessed--the sound of his voice. The moment had come at last. It had been none of her seeking; she did not pause to think how it had all happened, she only felt that he was near her and that her life's happiness depended on whether he thought her fair. The pleasant little demon of girlish coquetry whispered to her that, in the midst of this poetic setting of an old-world garden, he would be hard to please indeed if he did not fall a victim to her smile. She turned and faced him. "Ah!" she said, with a little cry of feigned surprise, "His Grace of Wessex! . . . I . . . I vow you frightened me, my lord . . . I thought this part of the garden quite deserted, and . . . and the Duke of Wessex at the feet of the Queen." She looked divinely pretty as she stood there before him, a delicate, nervous little blush suffusing her young cheeks, her eyes veiled by a fringe of lashes slightly darker than her golden hair. As dainty a picture as this fastidious man had ever gazed upon. "At your feet, fair one," he replied, with undisguised admiration expressed in his every look, "and burning with jealousy at thought of him, for whose sake your sweet fingers plucked the petal of that marguerite." She still held the flower, half stripped of its petals; he put out his hand in order to take it from her, or perhaps merely for the sake of touching for one second the soft velvet of her own. Harry Plantagenet, close by, had stretched himself out lazily in the sun. "Oh!" said Ursula, a little confused, still a little shy and nervous, "that . . . that was for a favourite brother who is absent . . . and I wished to know if he had not forgotten me." "Impossible," he replied with deep conviction, "even for a brother." "Your Grace is pleased to flatter." "The truth spoken to one so fair must ever seem a flattery." "Your Grace. . . ."