The dangerous element in these calculations was that they were sure to reach the king’s ear as soon as Nelly found an opportunity to impart them.  It were treason to withhold from his Majesty such a tearing bit of scandal.  She had no reason to suspect that the telling of what had happened and of what she had deduced would bring trouble to Frances and George.  She simply knew that the king would be vastly pleased with the story, and her only purpose in life was to give him pleasure.  How well she pleased him in this instance and the result of her innocent effort to make him happy will soon appear.

The day after the adventure of Frances and Nelly at the Old Swan, I had business with Backwell, the goldsmith, and when I had disposed of my matters, I walked over to the Old Swan near by to eat a grilled lobster, a dish for which the inn was famous.  I knew nothing of the trouble that had occurred the day before, not having seen my cousin, nor did I know that Hamilton was in London, not having seen nor heard from him since Frances’s arrival at court.

By far my greatest motive in going to the Old Swan was to see Betty, whose beauty and sweetness had begun to haunt me about that time.

If Mary Hamilton had shown me the least evidence of warmth, my admiration for Bettina, perhaps, would have remained merely admiration.  But in view of Mary’s admirable self-control, I found myself falling into a method of thought morally then prevalent with all modish men.  I confess with shame that I hoped to have Mary for my wife and Bettina to love me and to be loved.  I did not know Betty then, and have regretted all my life that once I looked upon her as—­well, as a barmaid.  While I thoroughly realized that she was an unusual girl in many respects, still I held to a theory then prevalent that barmaids were created to be kissed.

When I reached the Old Swan, I chose a table in a remote corner of the tap-room, ordered a lobster from one of the maids, and, while waiting for it, drank a cup of wormwood wine.

The place seemed dingy and drear with its great ceiling beams of time-darkened oak, its long, narrow windows of small square panes, its black fireplace, lifeless without the flames, and its dark, grim mahogany bar stretching halfway across the south side of the room.  The white floor, well sanded and polished, seemed only to accentuate the general gloom, and the great clock, ticking solemnly behind the bar, seemed to be marking time for a funeral dirge.  But suddenly all changed to brightness when Betty entered.  Pickering was talking to me, standing between me and the girl, so that she did not see me when she first came into the room.  She stepped behind the bar for some purpose and called to her father, who started to go to her, but before he reached her she looked up and saw me.  In a moment she was by my side, smiling and dimpling in a manner fit to set the heart of an anchorite a-thumping.

“I came for a lobster, Betty,” I said, taking her hand, “and to see you.  I was afraid you might forget me.”