"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.

[Pg 55]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 Mig