s just due,
and although she knew the restoration had been made to please, and, if
possible, to win her, she was glad to have spoiled the royal Philistine,
and despised him more than ever before, if that were possible.

Sir Richard's good fortune brought a gleam of joy to Frances, but it also
brought a pang of regret, because it had come too late. Her only purpose
in going to Whitehall had been to marry a rich nobleman and thereby raise
the fallen fortunes of her house. Now that reason existed no longer, and
if George were here, she could throw herself away upon him with injury to
no one but herself. But George was not here, and liberty to throw herself
away had come too late to be of any value.

Every day during the fortnight that Frances remained at home, she asked
if I had any news from court, meaning the French court, but using the
form of inquiry to avoid acquainting her father and Sarah with the real
cause of her solicitude.

But my answers were always, "Oh, nothing but Castlemain's new tantrum,"
or "The duke's defeat at pall-mall."

Frances was the last girl in the world, save, perhaps Sarah, who I should
have supposed capable of languishing and dying of love, but the former
she did before my eyes, and the latter I almost began to fear if news did
not reach us soon from George.

Betty came up to see Frances nearly every day, and the kissing and
embracing that ensued disgusted Sarah.

"Now, if Frances were a man, I could understand it," said Sarah. "The
little barmaid must be tempting to a man, being pretty and--"

"Beautiful, Sarah!" I interrupted.

"Yes, beautiful, if you will."

"Her eyes--" I began, again interrupting Sarah.

"Oh, yes!" cried Sarah, impatiently. "Her eyes are fine enough, but their
expression comes from their color, their size, and their preposterously
long eyelashes. Black long lashes often give a radiance to the eyes which
passes for expressiveness, and I doubt not--"

"Nonsense, Sarah!" I cried, half angrily. "Bettina's eyes are expressive
in themselves. As you say, their soft dark brown is the perfection of
color, and they certainly are large. But aside from all that, their
expression is--"

"There is no intellect in them!" cried Sarah.

"There is tenderness, gentleness, love, and truth in them," I answered,
with as careless an air as I could assume.

"Yes, there may be for a man, but I insist there is no real intellect."

"Well, Sarah," I answered, showing irritation des