Thus, almost before she knew it, Frances’s beauty had won, as we had been sure it would, and she was a maid of honor in Whitehall Palace to her Grace, the Duchess of York, sister-in-law to the king.

“The Mother of the Maids will instruct you in your duties, chief of which you will find easy enough, that is, to be beautiful,” said the duchess, taking a chair and indicating that we were to be seated.

Frances, Mary, and Lady Wentworth took chairs, but nothing short of a broken leg or tottering age would have justified me in accepting the invitation to sit.

“Before I send for the Mother of the Maids,” said the duchess, graciously, “let us talk a few minutes about ourselves and other people.”

Her suggestion being taken by silent consent, she asked Lady Wentworth about Sir William’s health and was graciously inquisitive concerning many of her Ladyship’s personal affairs, to her Ladyship’s infinite delight.  She talked to Mary and to me for a moment, and then turned to Frances, of whom she asked no personal questions, but spoke rather of her Grace’s own affairs and of life at court, dropping now and then many valuable hints that had no appearance of being instructions.

Presently her Grace said, “Now we have talked about ourselves, let us talk about other people.”

We all laughed, and Frances inquired, “Will your Grace kindly tell us whom we may abuse and whom praise?”

“Oh, abuse anybody—­everybody.  Praise only the very young, the very old and the halt; abuse all able-bodied adults, and laugh at any one in whom you see anything amusing,” answered the duchess.

“Not the king and—­” laughed Frances.

“The king!” interrupted her Grace, with a tone of contempt in her voice.  “Every one laughs at him.  He’s the butt of the court.  Do you know his nickname?”

“No,” returned Frances.

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Lady Wentworth, laughing nervously.  She did not want to be left out of the conversation entirely, so she chimed in irrelevantly.

“We call him Old Rowley in honor of the oldest, wickedest horse in the royal mews,” said the duchess, laughing.  “You need not restrain yourself.  Soon every one at court will be talking about you, the men praising your beauty, and insinuating ugly stories about your character, and the women wondering how any one can admire your doll’s face or find any wit in what you say.  Remember that the ordinary rule of law that one is deemed innocent until proved guilty is reversed in Whitehall.  Here one is deemed guilty till one proves one’s self innocent, and that is a difficult task.  Ah, my!  It has been many a day since we have had any convincing proof!  Eh, Lady Wentworth?”

“Yes, yes, your Grace!  Many a day, many a day!  Ah, we are a sad, naughty court, I fear,” answered my Lady, with a penitent sigh.  Her chief desire was to be a modish person; therefore she would not be left out of the iniquitous monde, though her face, if nothing else, placed her safely beyond the pale of Whitehall sin.  One of the saddest things in life is to be balked in an honest desire to be wicked!