"Forgive me, Richard," said the Duchess. "My heart so ruled my head
that I quite lost myself."
The Duke took her hand and pressed it affectionately. "Think no more
now of the matter; we will consider it to-morrow."
"And you will make no decision until then?"
"None, by St. Paul!" and striking the bell he ordered the page to
summon the Duchess' lady-in-waiting.
In a moment she appeared: a slender figure in dark blue velvet, with
ruddy tresses and deep grey eyes--the maid of Windsor Forest.
De Lacy caught his breath and stood staring, like one bereft of sense,
until the dropping of the arras hid her from his sight. Then he saw
Gloucester regarding him with a smile.
"You are not the first," he observed, "nor, I warrant, will you be the
last."
"Her name?" said the Knight so eagerly the Duke smiled again.
"She is Beatrix de Beaumont, in her own right Countess of Clare, and
save our own dear spouse no sweeter woman lives."
"In truth do I believe it; else has God sent a plague upon the Nobles
of England.'"
"If disappointed love and blasted hopes can be so reckoned," said
Richard with a shrug, "then does many a fair lord suffer from the
disease. See that you do not become affected also."
"Nay, my lord Duke," replied De Lacy; "I know better than to allow a
poor Knight's mind to dwell upon the charms of a great heiress--and she
the Countess of Clare."
"Pardieu!" said Gloucester; "be not so humble. Your birth is equal to
her own; it was only for your peace of mind I cautioned you."