“It is not I who am capricious!” cried Mrs. Croix.  She pouted charmingly.  “Indeed, sir, I never am quite sure of you.  You are all ardour to-day, and indifference to-morrow.  For work I am always put aside, and against your family demands I do not exist.”

“My dear Boadicea,” said Hamilton, drily, “I am a mere creature of routine.  I met you after my habits of work and domesticity were well established.  You are the fairest thing on earth, and there are times when you consume it, but circumstances isolate you.  Believe me, I am a victim of those circumstances, not of caprice.”

“My dear Hamilton,” replied Mrs. Croix, quite as drily, “you have all the caprice of a woman combined with all the lordly superiority of the male.  I well know that although I bewitch you, I can do so at your pleasure only.  You are abominably your own master, both in your strength and your weakness.  But there is no one like you on earth, so I submit.  And I work and burrow for you, and you will not even accept my precious offerings.”

“I will not have you playing the role of spy, if that is what you mean.  I do not like this idea of confessing my enemies when they think themselves safe in your house, I prefer to fight in the open, and they reveal themselves to me sooner or later.  What should I think of myself and you if I permitted you to act as a treacherous go-between.”

“You will not permit me to help you!  And I could do much!  I could tell you so much now that would put you on your guard.  I could help you immeasurably.  I could be your fate.  But you care for nothing but my beauty!” And she dropped dismally into her pocket-handkerchief.

Hamilton was not one of those men who dread a woman’s tears.  He had dried too many.  His immediate and practical consolation but appeared to deepen her grief, however, and he was obliged to resort to eloquence.

“Where do I find such hours of mental companionship as here?” he demanded.  “I say nothing of art and literature; do I not discuss with you the weightiest affairs of State—­everything, in fact, upon which my honour does not compel silence?  Never have I thought of asking the advice, the opinion, of a woman before.  You are my Egeria, and I am deeply grateful for you.  If at times I remember nothing but your beauty, would you have it otherwise?  I flatter myself that you would not.  Have you really anything to reproach me for, because I will not hear of your committing an act which I would not commit myself?  I suppose it is hopeless to talk of honour to the cleverest of women, but you must accept this dictum whether you understand it or not:  I will listen to none of the confidences of your trusting anti-Federalists.  Why cannot you come out honestly and declare your true politics?  You could do far more good, and I leave you no excuse to perpetrate this lie.”

“I will not,” sobbed his Egeria, obstinately.  “I may be able to be of service to you, even if you will not let me warn you of Madison’s treachery.”