Doesn't do for her to think too much." Her Grace was alone now with her son and heir and the nurse.

She bent over the cot and smiled upon Henry Fitzgeorge; he smiled back at her, and even gave an absent-minded crow; but his gaze almost instantly swung back again to the window, through which, deeply and with solemn absorption, he watched the clouds.
She gave him her hand, and he closed his fingers about one of hers; but even that grasp was abstracted, as though he were not thinking of her at all, but was simply behaving like a gentleman.
"I don't believe he's realised me a bit, nurse," she said, turning away from the cot.
"Well, Your Grace, they always take time.

It's early days." "But what's he thinking of all the time ?" "Oh, just nothing, Your Grace." "I don't believe it's nothing.

He's trying to settle things.

This--what it's all about--what he's got to do about it." "It may be so, Your Grace.