The Old Swan was a picturesque structure, beautiful in its quaintness, sweet in its cleanliness, and lovable in its ancient air of hospitality.  Its token, a full-grown swan, was the best piece of sign painting in London.  Its kitchen was justly celebrated.  The old inn was kept by Henry Pickering, a man far above his occupation in manner, education, and culture.  He had lived many years in France, where he had married a woman of good station, and where his only child, Bettina, whom we called Betty, was born and lived during her early childhood.  Pickering’s wife died in France, and his fortunes failed, so he returned to England, bought the Old Swan, and soon became rich again.

The Old Swan Tavern must not be confused with the Old Swan wharf and stairs, which were a short distance below the Bridge.

Neither Frances nor Nelly had ever visited the old tavern before, so, being unacquainted with the private entrance, Nelly marched bravely into the tap-room and asked Pickering to show them to a quiet dining room.

Two unescorted ladies of quality taking dinner at even so respectable a house as the Old Swan was an adventure well calculated to shock the judicious, but Nelly did not care a straw for appearances, and Frances hardly knew how questionable the escapade was.

When Pickering had seated his beautiful guests in the small dining room adjoining the tap-room, he returned to the bar and sent his daughter Betty to serve them.  She was a beautiful girl of eighteen, who had returned only a few months before from France, where she had spent three or four winters in a convent, her summers having been spent with her father.

There was no fairer skin nor sweeter face than Betty Pickering’s.  The expression of her great brown eyes, with their arching brows, was so demure as to give the impression that somewhere back in the shadow of their long, thick lashes lurked a fund of laughter and harmless mischief as charming as it was apparently latent.  Her form was of the partridge fashion, though not at all too plump, and her hands, which were white and soft as any lady’s, were small and dimpled at every knuckle.  Her little feet and ankles—­but we shall stop at the ankles.

Betty was unusually rich in dimples, having one in each cheek and a half score or more about her lips and chin whenever she smiled.  She was well aware of the beauty of her dimples and her teeth; therefore, like a sensible girl that she was, she smiled a great deal, both from feminine policy and natural inclination.  In short, Bettina was a Hebe in youth and beauty, and soon after I learned to know her, I learned also that she was an earthly little angel in disposition.  It may appear from the enthusiasm of this description that there was a time in my life when I was in love with her.  I admit it—­desperately in love with her.

To have Betty’s services at the Old Swan was a favor enjoyed only by her friends and guests of the highest quality.  She was not an ordinary barmaid, though she had friends whom she delighted to honor.  Among these were Hamilton and myself, we having visited the Old Swan frequently prior to the time of Hamilton’s going to France.