“You were right,” he answered impatiently.  “You awakened in me not only a sense of my duty to Frances, but a knowledge of my obligation to myself.”

“But are you so sure of my cousin, even barring other men?” I asked, hoping to sow the seeds of doubt.

“Yes,” he answered, with emphasis.  “As sure as a man may be in such a case.”

“Well, George,” said I, “it warms my heart to say that I hope you will gain wealth, station, and mode of life worthy of her, and that in the end you may win her.  My candid opinion is, however, that you will have to do it quickly.  She will accept none of these creatures at court, of that you may be sure, but there are many worthy gentlemen in England who are rich and of great name, who have business at court and will see her and want her.  There is Dick Talbot, Duke of Tyrconnel.  He is a fine fellow, enormously rich, and—­”

“A mere lump of meat,” interrupted Hamilton, angrily.  “She could not love him.”

“No,” I answered.  “Nor do I think she will try.  But it is better in the long run that a woman respect a man, not loving him, than to love, despising him.  Respect is likely to last; all sorts of love may die.  But in any case it is Frances’s intention to marry a fortune for her father’s sake, even though she has to close her eyes in doing it.”

“I’ll try to prevent that misfortune,” he answered gloomily.  “But if she learns to love a man worthy of her, I shall take myself out of her way forever.  Let us stand together, Baron Ned, and help this girl to happiness for life, without respect to myself.  You see I’m not all bad.  In truth, I am becoming self-righteous.  I have left the ranks of the publicans and sinners and have become a Pharisee.  I tell you, Baron Ned, nothing so swells a man in the chest as the belief that he is not as other men are.”

His righteousness, at least, was not devoid of bitterness, and it is possible that a part of his aversion to his former friends and to the king grew out of his jealousy of them for Frances’s sake.

“There is no good reason why you should allow your righteousness to become offensive, as that of the ranter, who hates rather than pities iniquity because, in his opinion, God is a God of vengeance,” I suggested ironically.  “But rather let your virtues grow as the rose unfolds and—­”

“Oh, be damned to your raillery!  I’m not going to be too decent!” he retorted, finding nothing to amuse him in my remark.  Nor did he become too decent, as will appear all too soon.

If, for a time, Hamilton’s life did not conform to our desires, we must not condemn him too harshly, for the evil which we try to throw off clings like a bur, while the good we would keep must be tied on.  Thus much I say in anticipation.  In the end he gained the battle with himself, though his victory won him the king’s hatred, put his life in jeopardy, and brought him misfortune such as he had never before known.