When Prince Ludwig came next day to see her and told her with grave courtesy that his pleasure lay in doing her will, she broke out:
"I had rather it lay in watching my face," and then, ashamed, she turned away from him.
He seemed grieved and hurt at her words; it was with a sigh that he said: "My life shall be spent in giving you joy."
She turned round on him with flushed cheek and trembling lips:
"Yes, but I had rather it were spent in getting joy from me."
He cast down his eyes a moment, and then, taking her hand, kissed it. But she drew it away sharply. So that afternoon they parted, he back to his Palace, she to her chamber, where she sat, asking again: "Is this love?" and crying: "He does not know love," and pausing, now and again, before her mirror, to ask her pictured face why it would not unlock the door of love.
On another day she would be merry, or feign merriment, rallying him on his sombre air and formal compliments, professing that for her part she soon grew weary of such wooing, and loved to be easy and merry;
