was the man
Frances loved and hated; and second, that it was his face she had
recognized on the night Roger Wentworth was killed.

The dangerous element in these calculations was that they were sure to
reach the king's ear as soon as Nelly found an opportunity to impart
them. It were treason to withhold from his Majesty such a tearing bit of
scandal. She had no reason to suspect that the telling of what had
happened and of what she had deduced would bring trouble to Frances and
George. She simply knew that the king would be vastly pleased with the
story, and her only purpose in life was to give him pleasure. How well
she pleased him in this instance and the result of her innocent effort to
make him happy will soon appear.

The day after the adventure of Frances and Nelly at the Old Swan, I had
business with Backwell, the goldsmith, and when I had disposed of my
matters, I walked over to the Old Swan near by to eat a grilled lobster,
a dish for which the inn was famous. I knew nothing of the trouble that
had occurred the day before, not having seen my cousin, nor did I know
that Hamilton was in London, not having seen nor heard from him since
Frances's arrival at court.

By far my greatest motive in going to the Old Swan was to see Betty,
whose beauty and sweetness had begun to haunt me about that time.

If Mary Hamilton had shown me the least evidence of warmth, my admiration
for Bettina, perhaps, would have remained merely admiration. But in view
of Mary's admirable self-control, I found myself falling into a method
of thought morally then prevalent with all modish men. I confess with
shame that I hoped to have Mary for my wife and Bettina to love me and to
be loved. I did not know Betty then, and have regretted all my life that
once I looked upon her as--well, as a barmaid. While I thoroughly
realized that she was an unusual girl in many respects, still I held to a
theory then prevalent that barmaids were created to be kissed.

When I reached the Old Swan, I chose a table in a remote corner of the
tap-room, ordered a lobster from one of the maids, and, while waiting for
it, drank a cup of wormwood wine.

The place seemed dingy and drear with its great ceiling beams of
time-darkened oak, its long, narrow windows of small square panes, its
black fireplace, lifeless without the flames, and its dark, grim mahogany
bar stretching halfway across the south side of the room. The white
floor, well sanded and polished, s