My revered father was the twenty-second Baron Clyde, Edwin by baptism, and I, his namesake, am, or rather was, the twenty-third and last baron of our line, having lost my title by reason of entanglement with the desperate fortunes of George Hamilton.

My father had been a staunch supporter of Charles I, not only because Charles was our divinely appointed king, but also because his Majesty was a lovable person in many respects.  His misfortunes were the result of bad advice, false philosophy, and a heart too kind.  Kindliness in a king is a dangerous virtue, and a royal conscience is like a boil on the elbow, always in the way.  Aside from his kindliness there were only two other qualities necessary to insure King Charles I the loss of his head, and he possessed them—­stubbornness and weakness.  A good king need have but two virtues, strength and love for his people, but if he would reign comfortably, these virtues must be supplemented by a strenuous vice,—­sure death to his enemies.

So when my father saw that fidelity to King Charles’s hopeless cause meant hopeless ruin, he took the gout and went to Germany.  Absence from England enabled him to desert the cause he loved, but could not help, and more, it saved him the humiliation of being compelled to join the Cromwell forces,—­a cause which he could have helped, but hated.  Therefore he saw to it that his gout remained with him during the entire Cromwell interregnum, and he died at Aix-la-Chapelle just before the recall of Charles II to the English throne.

I inherited my father’s title and a part of his estate; a great portion of the latter having been granted to the accommodating husband of one of Charles II’s friends.

I returned to England with the king, and, as balm to my wounded estate, was made Second Gentleman of the Wardrobe in that modern Sodom, Whitehall Palace, Westminster, where lived Charles II, who was said to have been appointed and anointed of God, king of our glorious realm.  God makes some curious mistakes, if human opinion is to be accepted.

The name Lot was unknown in Whitehall, but Mesdames Potiphar, Salome, and Delilah were met at every turn, while Davids and Johns, eager to be tempted, and Samsons, stooping to be shorn, hedged the king about with anything save divinity.

That interesting Frenchman, Comte de Grammont, is accredited with saying that during his residence in England he knew but one woman in Whitehall who was both beautiful and pure,—­Frances Jennings, maid of honor to her Grace, the Duchess of York, the Duke of York being James, brother of Charles II, and heir presumptive to the English throne.

I am proud to say that this beautiful Frances Jennings was my mother’s brother’s child.  In early youth I had lived in her father’s house and was more her elder brother than her cousin.

I suppose De Grammont was wrong in his sweeping assertion, but he was right in his judgment of Frances, for though she was admittedly the most beautiful woman—­perhaps I should say girl, for she was very young—­at court, she—.  But what befell her is a part of George Hamilton’s history and shall be told all in its turn.