This was taking the wind out of my sails at a great rate.  In truth, it was taking the sails themselves, though I believed he was not speaking for sake of the advantage.  In a moment he bowed low, sweeping the plume of his hat in the dust, saying as he left us:—­

“Farewell, Mistress Jennings, and thank you, Baron Ned.  You say I am a staunch friend.  You have still to learn the whole truth of your praise.”

Turning instantly, he hastened away from us down the Bourne Path, and though we waited for him to look back, he disappointed us, and soon was lost as he passed beyond a bend.  Frances was weeping gently, and I, too, felt a lump in my throat, not because of what I had said or done, but because of the unexpected good I had found in Hamilton, whom I had always liked; good, which up to that time I had never suspected, having always seen him in the shadow of a throne.

When Hamilton had disappeared, I asked Frances if we should return to Sundridge, and she answering by a nod, we started home, each of us heavy-hearted, one of us weeping pathetically.  Her heart had just received its first sharp blow, and I pitied her, for the first one hurts.

After walking a little way in silence, I remarked, “There is no reason why we should add to your father’s troubles by telling him of this affair.”

“Nor Sarah,” sobbed Frances.  “She is like a wasp—­all sting.”  After a long pause devoted to drying her eyes, she continued, “But it has not been much of an affair.”

“I am not asking what it has been, Frances,” I returned, speaking tenderly, for I knew her heart was sore.  “I have no right to ask.”

“Yes, you have the right to ask,” she replied, earnestly.  “You have earned it to-day, if never before.  I’ll tell you all about it.  You see I did not know—­I did not think it possible—­that he was the evil person you described.  To me he seemed as high-minded as he was gallant and handsome.”

“He is high-minded in many respects,” I said, “and might have been a decent man in all respects had he lived under other conditions.  He is far the best of what is known at court as ‘the Royal Clique,’ and is an angel of goodness compared with the king and his despicable son, James Crofts, Duke of Monmouth.  Do you want to tell me where and how you met Hamilton?”

After a moment’s silence she began her pathetic little narrative, hesitating at first, but gathering courage as she spoke:—­

“I first saw him on the street in St. Albans, more than a month ago.  Of course I did not look directly at him, but I saw him and knew that he was looking at me.  I have been used to being stared at by men since I was a child of twelve—­I am past eighteen now, you know—­and learned long ago not to resent an impertinence which is alike unavoidable and, in a poor way, flattering.  But there was this difference:  when he stared at me I blush to say I liked it, nor should I have repulsed him had he spoken to me.  He was the first man I had ever seen that had really attracted me.  You are not a woman, therefore you cannot understand me fully.  You see, a man goes to a woman; a woman is drawn to a man, usually, I suppose, against her will.  I know little about the subject, this being my first, and, I hope, my last experience, but—­”