“You would suppose, from Betty’s remark, that I am master here, but the truth is my soul is not my own, and now her modest request for permission is made for effect on the company.”

Betty ran to her father, sat on his knee, twined her arm about his neck, and kissed him as a protest against the unjust insinuation.

“You see how she does it,” said Pickering.  “No hammer and tongs for Betty; just oil and honey.”

“And lots and lots of love, father,” interrupted Betty.

* * * * *

Well, our journey was soon arranged on a grand scale.  Pickering lent us his new coach, just home from the makers in Cow Street.  It was cushioned and curtained and had springs in place of thorough-braces.  It also had glass in the windows and doors; a luxury then little known in England even among the nobles.  There was a prejudice against its use in coach windows because of the fact that two or three old ladies had cut their faces in trying to thrust their heads through it.

The new coach was a wonderful vehicle, and Frances and I, as well as Betty, were very proud of our grandeur.  Pickering sent along with the coach and horses two lusty fellows as drivers, and gave us a hamper almost large enough to feed a company of soldiers.  I was to pay all expenses on the road.

Almost at the last hour Sir Richard concluded not to go, but insisted that Frances, Bettina, and I take the journey by ourselves.  As Pickering offered no objection, Frances shrugged her shoulders in assent, I shrugged mine, and Betty laughed, whereby we all, in our own way, agreed to the new arrangement, and preparations went forward rapidly.

By the time we were ready to start, the king, the duke, the duchess, and many ladies and gentlemen of the court circle had gone to Bath, thus giving us an opportunity to make our journey without the knowledge of any one in Whitehall; a consideration of vast importance to us under the circumstances.  Some of our grand friends at court might have laughed at our taking the journey with an innkeeper’s daughter, in an innkeeper’s coach, but Frances and I laughed because we were happy.

There are distinct periods of good and bad luck in every man’s life, which may be felt in advance by one sensitive to occult influences, if one will but keep good watch on one’s intuitions and leave them untrammelled by will or reason.  At this time “I felt it in my bones,” as Betty would have said, that the day of our good luck was at hand.

All conditions seemed to combine to our pleasure when, on a certain bright spring morning, Betty, Frances, and I went down to the courtyard of the Old Swan, where we found the coach, the horses, and even the drivers all glittering in the sunshine.

There was ample room in the back seat of the coach for the three of us, so Betty took one corner, Frances made herself comfortable in another, and I took what was left, the pleasant place between them.