He crushed the senseless paper again and again down into the grass beneath his heel; his lips shook under the silky abundance of his beard; the natural habit of long usage kept him from all utterance, and even in the violence of its shock he remembered the young Venetia's presence; but, in that one fierce, unrestrained gesture the shame and suffering upon him broke out, despite himself.
The child watched him, startled and awed.

She touched his hand softly.
"What is it?
Is it anything worse ?" He turned his eyes on her with a dry, hot, weary anguish in them; he was scarcely conscious what he said or what he answered.
"Worse--worse ?" he repeated mechanically, while his heel still ground down in loathing the shattered paper into the grass.

"There can be nothing worse! It is the vilest, blackest shame." He spoke to his thoughts, not to her; the words died in his throat; a bitter agony was on him; all the golden summer evening, all the fair green world about him, were indistinct and unreal to his senses; he felt as if the whole earth were of a sudden changed; he could not realize that this thing could come to him and his--that this foul dishonor could creep up and stain them--that this infamy could ever be of them and upon them.

All the ruin that before had fallen on him to-day was dwarfed and banished; it looked nothing beside the unendurable horror that reached him now.
The gay laughter of children sounded down the air at that moment; they were the children of a French Princess seeking their playmate Venetia, who had escaped from them and from their games to find her way to Cecil.
He motioned her to them; he could not bear even the clear and pitying eyes of the Petite Reine to be upon him now.
She lingered wistfully; she did not like to leave him.
"Let me stay with you," she pleaded caressingly.

"You are vexed at something; I cannot help you, but Rock will--the Duke will.