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The answer pleased the King. For he ever turned life into jest–his sorrows and his joys. He rose motioning towards the door, and Lord Rippingdale passed out just behind him, followed by Sir Richard Mowbray, who stole a glance at the young chronicler as he went. She saw him, then recognised him, and flushed scarlet.

She did not dare, however, to let him come to her. He understood, and he went his way after the King and Lord Rippingdale.

In all the years that had passed since the night he had helped her father and herself to escape from Enderby House; since he aided them to leave their hiding-place on the coast and escape to Holland, she had never forgotten his last words to her, the laughing look of his eyes, the pressure of his hand. Many a time since she had in her own mind thought of him as she had heard her father call him, even as “Happy Dick Mowbray!” and the remembrance of his joyous face had been a help to her in all her sufferings. His brown hair was now streaked with grey, but the light in the face was the same; there was the same alertness and buoyant health in the figure and the same row of laughing white teeth.

As she stood watching the departing figure, she scarcely knew that the Queen was preparing to go to her bed-chamber. She became aware of it definitely by the voice of her Majesty, now somewhat petulant.

Two hours later she was walking alone in one of the galleries when, hearing a gentle step behind her, she turned and saw the King. She made an obeisance and was about to move on, when he stopped her, speaking kindly to her, and thanking her for the great pleasure she had given him that afternoon.

“What should be done for this quasi knight of Enderby?” asked the King.

“He saved the life of the King,” she said; then boldly, confidently, “your Majesty, for conscience sake he lost all–what can repay him for his dishonoured years and his ruined home!”

“What think you, Mistress, should be done with him? Speak freely of the man whom the King delighteth to honour.”

She felt the sincerity under the indolent courtesy, and spoke as only a woman can speak for those she loves. “Your Majesty, he should have the earldom promised his ancestor by Wolsey, and his estates restored to him as he left them.”

The King laughed dryly.

“He might refuse the large earldom, as he scorned the little knighthood.”

“If your Majesty secured him estates suitable to his rank he could have no reason to refuse. He was solicitous and firm then for his son–but now!”

Her reply was as diplomatic and suggestive as it was sincere, and Charles loved such talents.

“Upon my soul, dear Mistress Falkingham, I love your cleverness,” said the King, “and I will go further, I–” He stooped and whispered in her ear, but she drew back in affright and anxiety.

“Oh, your Majesty, your Majesty,” she said, “I had not thought–“

She moved on distractedly, but he put out his hand and stayed her.

“Ah, a moment, sweetheart,” he urged.

“I must go to the Queen,” she answered hurriedly. “Oh, your Majesty, your Majesty,” she repeated, “would you ruin me?” Her eyes filled with tears. “Until the Queen welcomed me here I have had nothing but sorrow. I am friendless and alone.”

“No, no,” said Charles, kindly, “not alone while Charles is King in England.”

“I am little more than an orphan here,” she said, “for my father is now only a common soldier, your Majesty, and–“

“A common soldier!” repeated Charles a little stiffly; “they told me he was a gentleman of England doing service in Italy.”

“My father is in your Majesty’s household guard,” she answered. “He was John Enderby–alas! none would recognise him now as such.”

The King stared at her a moment. “You–you–Mistress–you are John Enderby’s daughter?”

Her reply was scarce above a whisper. “His only child, Sir.”