'All this, my son,' said King Henry, 'you shall correct at your discretion.

Humours, vapours, qualms, fantasies--pouf! You can blow them away with a kiss.
Have you tried it?
No?
Too cold?
Nay, but you should.' And so on, and so on.

That day, none too soon, the French ambassadors arrived, and Richard saw the Count of Saint-Pol among them.
He had never liked the Count of Saint-Pol; or perhaps it would be truer to say that he disliked him more than ordinary.

But he belonged to, had even a tinge of, Jehane; some of her secret fragrance hung about him, he walked in some ray of her glory.

It seemed to Richard, bothered, sick, fretted, a little disconcerted as he was now, that the Count of Saint-Pol had an air which none other of this people had.