A dark-eyed page was at her feet, playing on a small harp, and Jeanne sat beside her. Margaret lay back at her ease, a splendid figure against the fur-skin that covered her chair. At the far end of the room some gentlemen stood, conversing together; the Chevalier leaned over the back of his cousin’s chair, whispering occasionally in her ear. She paid little heed to his sallies, but now and then jerked her shoulder impatiently, and frowned. ‘Art cold today, sweet cousin,’ the Chevalier whispered. ‘I have not changed, Victor,’ she answered curtly. ‘You weary me.’ ‘But one day, fairest, you will change? Shall I never find the way to thy heart?’ ‘At a distance I might like you better,’ she said. ‘Cruel, cruel! Ah, Margot, if ye would but smile upon me, what might not we do to oust this English boor?’ Her lip curled. ‘I need no help from you, Victor.’ His voice sank lower.
