“Yes, if you insist on putting it so,” I replied.  “What is every girl doing?  What else is every good mother doing for her daughter?  Marriage is the one way in which a gentlewoman may find settlement in life.  Frances has no mother.  Let us help her to win the happiness she deserves.  ‘Angling’ is an ugly word, and in Frances’s case is not the right one.  Great men and rich men will soon be angling for her.  Let us place her where the bait is worth taking.  Let us not mince matters, but admit between ourselves that we are sending Frances to court to make a good marriage.  No one less than a rich duke or a wealthy earl will satisfy me.  If you wish to allow a mere jealous fear in your heart to blight her prospects, she will be the sufferer, and hereafter may thank your folly for her misfortune.”

Sir Richard remained silent a moment or two and then spoke tremulously:  “The saddest thing about age is its hesitancy, its doubts, its fears.”  Here the tears began to stream down the old man’s cheek as he continued:  “Through all my misfortunes Frances has been my joy, my solace.  Sarah is a good daughter, but she lacks the ineffable tenderness, the calm, ready sympathy of her sister.  If evil were to befall Frances, my heart would break—­break.”  He covered his face with his hands and sobbed, murmuring as though to himself:  “My God, I fear!  I fear!  She is my all—­all!  The king has taken everything else, and now you ask me to give her to him.”

A great lump came to my throat, but in a moment I was able to say:  “Do not fear, uncle, do not fear!  Rather, rejoice!  Let me be your staff, your courage, your strength!  Think it over till morning, and then give your consent with the full assurance that it will mean happiness for the girl whom you and I so dearly love.”

The old man rose, took my hand, held it in his feeble grasp for a moment, and went to his room without another word.

As I was going down the narrow passageway to my bedroom, Frances opened her door and asked:  “What does father say?  I know it almost kills him.”

“Yes,” I answered.  “But he will consent in the morning.”

Tears came to her eyes and she gave me her hand, saying:  “Thank you, brother Ned.  We are wounding him only for his own sake.  If it were not to help him, all the wealth in the world would not tempt me to give him this pain nor to go to Whitehall, for I fear the place.”

As she stood at the door, candle in hand, her low-cut gown exposing her beautiful throat with its strong full curves, its gleaming whiteness and the pulsing hollow at the base, her marvellous hair of sunlit gold hanging in two thick braids to below her waist, her sweet oval face of snowy whiteness, underlaid with the faint pink of roses, her great luminous eyes with their arched and pencilled brows, and the tears pendant from the long black lashes, I could not help knowing that there was not in all Whitehall beauty to compare