"By the asking of a question which Your Grace might deem indiscreet." "Nay, my lord," quoth the Duke gaily, "no question need be indiscreet, though answers often are." "Your Grace is pleased to laugh . . . but in this case . . . I . . . that is . . . I hardly know how to put it . . . yet I would assure Your Grace . . ." "By Our Lady, man!" cried Wessex with a slight show of impatience, "assure me no assurances, but tell me what you wish to say." "Well then! since I have Your Grace's leave. . . . My object is this. . . . Court gossip has it that you are affianced to the Lady Ursula Glynde." The Duke did not reply. Don Miguel looked up and saw a quaint smile hovering round His Grace's lips. The young Spaniard, though an earnest and even proficient reader of other men's thoughts, did not quite understand the meaning of that smile: it seemed wistful yet triumphant, full of gaiety and yet with a suspicion of that strange and delicious melancholy, which is never quite inseparable from a great happiness. But as he seemingly was meeting with no rebuff, the Marquis continued more boldly-- "And . . . but Your Grace must really pardon me. . . . I hardly know how to put it so as not to appear impertinent . . . but 'tis also said that you do not wish to claim the lady's hand." "Marry! . . ." rejoined the Duke with a laugh. Then he paused, as if in the act of recalling his somewhat roving thoughts, and said more coldly-- "You must pardon me, my lord, if I do not quite perceive in what manner this may concern you." "I pray Your Grace to have patience with me yet a while longer. I will explain my purpose directly. For the moment I will entreat you, an you will, to answer my question. It is a matter of serious moment to me, and you would render me eternally your debtor." None knew better in these days than did the high-born Spaniards, all the many little tricks of voice and gesture which go to make up the abstruse and difficult art of diplomacy. Don Miguel at this juncture looked so frank, so boyish, and withal so earnest, that the Duke of Wessex--himself the soul of truth and candour--never even suspected that the young man was but playing a part and enacting a scene, which he had rehearsed under the skilful management of His Eminence the Spanish Cardinal. Wessex, ever ready to see the merry side of life, ever ready for gaiety and brightness, felt completely disarmed, glad enough to lay aside the cold reserve which the foreign envoys themselves had called forth in him. He liked the Marquis under this new semblance of boyish guilelessness, and returned his tone of deferential frankness with one of easy familiarity. "The question, my lord, is somewhat difficult to answer," he said with mock seriousness, the while a gay laugh was dancing in his eyes. "You see, there are certain difficulties in the way. The Lady Ursula is a Glynde . . . and all the Glyndes have brown eyes. . . . Now at this moment I feel as if I could never love a brown eye again."