skilled in this as in other equally
unstable forms of architecture.

Apart, over by the fire, in a great chair of gilt leather, lounged the
King, languidly observing this smaller party, a faint, indolent smile on
his swarthy, saturnine countenance. Absently, with one hand he stroked
a little spaniel that was curled in his lap. A black boy in a gorgeous,
plumed turban and a long, crimson surcoat arabesqued in gold--there were
three or four such attendants about the room--proffered him a cup of
posses on a golden salver.

The King rose, thrust aside the little blackamoor, and with his spaniel
under his arm, sauntered across to Miss Stewart's table. Soon he found
himself alone with her--the others having removed themselves on his
approach, as jackals fall back before the coming of the lion. The last
to go, and with signs of obvious reluctance, was his Grace of Richmond,
a delicately-built, uncomely, but very glittering gentleman.

Charles faced her across the table, the tall house of cards standing
between them.

Miss invited his Majesty's admiration for my Lord of Buckingham's
architecture. Pouf! His Majesty blew, and the edifice rustled down to a
mere heap of cards again.

"Symbol of kingly power," said Miss, pertly. "You demolish better than
you build, sire."

"Oddsfish! If you challenge me, it were easy to prove you wrong," quoth
he.

"Pray do. The cards are here."

"Cards! Pooh! Card castles are well enough for Buckingham. But such is
not the castle I'll build you if you command me."

"I command the King's Majesty? Mon Dieu! But it would be treason
surely."

"Not greater treason than to have enslaved me." His fine eyes were oddly
ardent. "Shall I build you this castle, child?"

Miss looked at him, and looked away. Her eyelids fluttered
distractingly. She fetched a sigh.

"The castle that your Majesty would build for any but your Queen must
prove a prison."

She rose, and, looking across the room, she met the handsome, scowling
eyes of the neglected favourite. "My Lady Castlemaine looks as if she
feared that fortune were not favouring her." She was so artless that
Charles could not be sure there was a double meaning to her speech.
"Shall we go see how she is faring?" she added, with a disregard for
etiquette, whose artlessness he also doubted.

He yielded, of course. That was his way with beauty, especially with
beauty not yet reduced into possession. But the characteristic urbanity
with which he sa