“If you are willing to make me more unhappy than I am.”

“Not for the world, Bettina,” I answered, rallying against myself.  “Goodnight.”

“Good night.  Now I know you are my friend,” she answered softly, holding my hands for a moment, then dropping them suddenly and turning from me.

I have refrained from speaking of Mary Hamilton of late, partly because I did not see her frequently at this time, and partly because the shame I felt at the time of which I am now writing comes surging over me whenever I touch upon the subject.  Not that I did anything of which I need be ashamed, but because I remember so vividly my motives and desires that the old sensations return, even at this distant day, as a perfume, a strain of music, the soft balminess of spring, or the sharp bite of winter’s frost may recall a moment of the past, and set the heart throbbing or still it as of yore.

After leaving Bettina, I went back to Whitehall and dressed for a ball which the queen was giving that night.  It was an unfortunate time for me to see Mary.  My heart was full, not to overflowing, but to sinking, with my love of Bettina and her love of me.  There was nothing I would not have given at that time to be able to take her as my wife.  I should have been glad to give my title, estates, and position—­everything—­to be a simple tradesman or an innkeeper so that I might take Bettina with happiness to her and without the damning sin of losing caste to me.

It was true the king’s brother had made a marriage of comparatively the same sort, but it is almost as impossible for a prince to lose caste as it is difficult for a mere baron to keep it.  Bettina would not be happy in my sphere of life, nor could I live in hers, so what was there for me to do but to keep my engagement with Mary Hamilton and, if I could, lose my love for Bettina.

* * * * *

The queen’s ball was to be held that night at St. James’s Palace, and I was glad to have the walk from Whitehall across the park.  The night was perfect.  A slim moon hung in the west, considerately withholding a part of her light that the stars might twinkle the brighter in their vain effort to rival Bettina’s eyes.  The night wind came to me, odor-laden from the roses, only to show me how poor a thing it was compared with Bettina’s breath upon my cheek and its sweetness in my nostrils.  Now and then a belated bird sang its sleepy song, only to remind me of the melody of her lullabies, and the cooing dove moaned out its plaintive call lest I forget the pain in her breast while selfishly remembering the ache in my own.  Then I thought of what the Good Book says about “bright clouds,” and I prayed that my pain might make me a better man and might lead me to help Bettina in the days of her sorrowing, which I knew were at hand.

Soon after I had kissed the hands of the king and the queen, I met George’s brother, Count Anthony Hamilton.  He had never been friendly to his younger brother, and had ceased to look upon him as a brother at all after his disgraceful reformation.  Then when the king turned against George, Anthony, good courtier that he was, turned likewise, and there is no bitterness that may be compared with that of an apostate brother.