I had come to look for a speedy accomplishment of my cousin’s good fortune, and also to regard Hamilton as my dearest friend among men.  Still I was helpless to remedy these evils if they really existed.  What I did at the time was to insist, first, that Frances regain her senses as soon as possible, and second, that she say nothing of her intention to leave Whitehall for at least ten days.  To my first request she replied that she had never been so completely in possession of her senses as at that present moment, and my second, she positively refused to consider.

The best of women want their way, at least in part, so I said, “I abandon my first request as unreasonable.”

She looked up to me, hardly knowing whether to laugh or to frown, but she chose the former, and I continued, “And as to my second suggestion, I amend it to, say, five or six days.”

“Three!” she insisted.  So we let it stand at that, each with a sense of triumph.

We returned to the palace, and soon I had an opportunity to ask the king for a word privately.  He graciously consented, and led me to his closet, overlooking the River Thames.  From this closet, on the second floor, a privy stairs led down to a door which opened on a small covered porch at the head of a flight of stone steps falling to the king’s private barge landing at the water’s edge.  When I noticed the narrow stairway, I had no thought of the part it would one day play in the fortunes and misfortunes of Frances, Hamilton, and myself.

On the king’s command, I sat down near him, and he asked:—­

“What can I do for you, baron?  I do not remember your having ever solicited a favor of me, and I shall be delighted to grant what you ask, if I can.”

“I seek no favor, your Majesty,” I returned.  “I simply want to tell you that my cousin, Mistress Jennings, has just informed me of her intention to leave Whitehall, and I wonder—­”

“No, no,” cried the king, interrupting me.  “She shall not go!  Why is she discontented here?”

“I am not sure that I can tell your Majesty,” I answered evasively.  “I am loath to see her go, and, knowing well your kindliness, hoped you would be willing to urge her to remain.”

“Gladly,” replied the king.  “She is the most beautiful ornament of our court, and we must not lose her.  I don’t mind telling you for your own ear that I suspect the cause of her sudden resolution and respect it.”

He laughed, and after a long pause, continued:—­

“I forgot that she was fresh from the country, and that she still retained part of her prudish ideas, so while walking with her yesterday on the Serpentine, I offered her a pension, to which she is justly entitled, adorning our court as she does.  But I fear she took my honest efforts at gallantry too seriously.  My dear baron, the girl shall have her pension without the slightest return on her part save one of her rare smiles now and then.  Say to her, please, that the king sends his apology and eagerly awaits an opportunity to offer it in person.”