hough I afterwards learned he was in Paris), and therefore was unable
to warn him. In fact, I knew little that was worth telling him at the
time of which I am writing, since I did not believe he was really in
danger. I did not even know that he was aware of the Roger Wentworth
tragedy.

Meantime Frances was making progress at court, of which even I, with all
my hopefulness, had little dreamed. What she desired above all else was
money for her father. Sir Richard and Sarah had moved up to London to be
near Frances and were living in a modest little house at the end of a
cul-de-sac called Temple Street, just off the Strand near Temple Bar.

The opportunity to get money soon came to Frances in the form of an offer
by the king of a small pension which would have placed her and her father
beyond the pale of want. But the king's manner in offering it had caused
her to refuse.

She had fallen into the wholesome way of telling me all that occurred
touching herself, which during this time consisted chiefly of the efforts
of nearly every man of prominence in Whitehall, from the king and the
duke to bandylegged Little Jermyn, the lady-killer, to convince her of
his desperate passion. She laughed at them all, and her indifference
seemed to increase their ardor.

One day Frances met me in the Stone Gallery as I was coming from my
lodging in the Wardrobe over the Gate, and asked me to walk out with her.
I saw that something untoward had happened, so I joined her and we went
to the park. When we were a short way from the palace, she told me of the
king's offer and tried to tell me of his manner, the latter evidently
having been meant to be understood by Frances in case she wished to see
it as he doubtless intended she should. She saw it as the king intended,
but the result was far from what he expected.

"I turned my back on him," she said angrily, "and left him without so
much as a word or a courtesy, and I intend to leave Whitehall."

"By no means!" I exclaimed. "Accept or refuse the king's pension as you
choose, and pass serenely on your way, unconscious of what he may have
implied. If you remain at court, you must learn not to see a mere implied
affront, and perhaps to smile at many an overt one. Before you came you
had full warning of what would happen. Don't see! Don't feel! Don't care!
Be true to yourself and smile at the devil if you happen to meet him. He
has no weapon against a smile. One escapes many a disagreeable sit