of amber and claret.  The lingering girlishness in her face had departed after a memorable occasion, but her prettiness had gained in intellect and character; piquant and roguish, at times, as it still was.  It was seven years since she had applied her clever brain to politics and public affairs generally—­finance excepting—­and with such unwearied persistence that Hamilton had never had another excuse to seek companionship elsewhere.  Moreover, she had returned to her former care of his papers, she encouraged him to read to her whatever he wrote, and was necessary to him in all ways.  She loved him to the point of idolatry, but she kept her eye on him, nevertheless, and he wandered no more.  When he could not accompany her to Saratoga in summer, she sent the children with one of her sisters, and remained with him, no matter what the temperature, or the age of a baby.  But she made herself so charming that if he suspected the surveillance he was indifferent, and grateful for her companionship and the intelligent quality of her sympathy.  Elizabeth Hamilton never was a brilliant woman, but she became a remarkably strong-minded and sensible one.  Femininely she was always adorable.  Although relieved of the heavier social duties since the resignation from the Cabinet, Hamilton’s fame and the popularity of both forced them into a prominent position in New York society.  They entertained constantly at dinner, and during the past seven years many distinguished men besides Talleyrand had sat at their hospitable board:  Louis Philippe d’Orleans,—­supported for several years by Gouverneur Morris,—­the Duc de Montpensier, the Duke of Kent, John Singleton Copley, subsequently, so eminent as jurist and statesman, Kosciusko, Count Niemcewicz, the novelist, poet, dramatist, and historian, were but a few.  All travellers of distinction brought letters to Hamilton, for, not excepting Washington, he was to Europeans the most prosilient of Americans.  If there had been little decrease of hard work during these years, there had been social and domestic pleasures, and Hamilton could live in the one or the other with equal thoroughness.  He was very proud of his wife’s youthful appearance, and to-night he reproached her for losing so many hours of rest.

“Could anyone sleep in this racket?” she demanded, lightly.  “You must be worn out.  Come into the dining room and have supper.”

And they all enjoyed their excellent meal of hot oysters, and dismissed politics until the morrow.

III

But if Hamilton consigned politics to oblivion at midnight and slept for the few hours demanded by outraged nature, he plunged from the crystal of his bath into their reeking blackness early in the morning.  He had laughed the night before, but he was in the worst of tempers as he shut his study door behind him.  For the first time in his life he was on a battle-ground with no sensation of joy in the coming