“Ah, did he?” asked Frances, surprised at the king’s willingness to speak of his rebuff.

“Yes,” returned Nelly, surprising Frances still further by a soberness of manner rarely seen in the laughing girl.

After a long pause, Nelly continued:  “Do you know, I hate the fat Castlemain woman.  And the bow-legged Stuart hussy!  She seems to be proud of her crooked shanks and exhibits them on every possible occasion.  There is something about extreme ugliness that drives it to exposure, on the principle, I suppose, that murder will out.  And there’s ugly Wells!  I hate her, too!  Her charm, like that of the Puritan’s face, lies wholly in her damned ugliness.  I hate them all, though I do not fear them, but oh, Mistress Jennings—­” Here she leaned forward and grasped Frances’s wrist almost fiercely, “The human heart is a strange thing, at least mine is, for I love you, but oh, I fear you!”

“No, no,” cried Frances, at a loss just what to say.

“Yes,” continued Nell, insistently.  “Let me tell you!  Of late I can neither eat nor sleep because of the dread that you will rob me of the king’s love.  I can do nothing but pray and swear.  He does love me more than he loves all the world, because he knows I am true to him!  And his love is meat and drink and life itself to me!  If you could see but one little part of my love for him, if you could know that I worship him, God help me! as I should worship only my Maker, if you could understand that if you were to steal him from me, you would take my life, my very soul,—­if so poor a thing as I can have a soul,—­you, who may choose and pick men at will, would leave his love to me!”

“You need not fear, you need not fear,” said Frances, soothingly.

“He is not true to me,” continued Nelly, impetuously, “and I know it.  But I do not care.  I have his love, and with that I am content.  I would not ask fidelity.  I care nothing for the wealth he gives.  I accept only a meagre portion of what he offers, and have refused honors and titles which would be a burden to me.  I want only the man, Charles Stuart.”

She began to weep softly, drying her eyes and trying to laugh.  “He’s not much of a man, and I know his weaknesses better than any one in all the world knows them.  But he is all to me, and I beg you to leave me this part of a man, for you only, of all women I know, can take him from me.”

“I would not take the king from you, even to be his queen, if that were possible.  I promise that I shall not rob you of his love.  It is the last thing in the world I want.  You say you love me.  I believe you and give you like return.  Every one loves you, Nelly.”

“Ah, I thank you—­Frances,” answered Nelly, hesitating at the name.

“Let us seal a pact of friendship,” said Frances.  “We shall need each other’s help in this vile court that takes its quality from its king.”

“Yes, truly he is vile,” returned Nelly.  “But women of my class, born and bred in the slums of life, do not measure a man by his virtues, but by their love of him.  I know not how it is, nor why, but this I know, we love because of what we give, and the more we give, the more we love.”