I myself may have been lacking in morals, but at my worst I was a saint compared to George Hamilton and his friends, Lord Berkeley, young Wentworth, and the king’s son, James Crofts, Duke of Monmouth.  There was, however, this difference between George and his friends:  he was gentlemanly picturesque in wickedness; they were nauseous in the filthiness of vice.

After I became a suitor for the hand of George Hamilton’s sister, I had closed my eyes to his shortcomings and, for some time prior to my Sundridge visit, had sought to further my cause with her by winning her brother’s help.  I had known Hamilton many years before, when we were all exiles in Holland and France, and had always liked him.  In fact, we had been friends from our youth, and while in latter years I had not seen much of him, having avoided him because of his vicious mode of life, I had found no difficulty in taking up our old intimacy.  At the time of which I am writing I was sure that he was my friend and had given him good reason to think the same of me.  There was an attraction about him that was winning and irresistible even to men.  What must it have been to women?

I speak of this friendship between George Hamilton and me at this time because of the great strain its bonds were soon to have; so great that I am still wondering why they did not break.  To close this mention of my own love affair, I would say that at the time of my visit to Sundridge I had reasonable cause to hope for a favorable termination.  Not that I expected ever to kindle a fiery passion in Mary’s breast, for she was not of the combustible sort, but I believed she liked me, favored my suit, and I hoped would accept me in the end.  While she was very pretty, she was not of so great beauty as to mislead her family into expecting that she would catch an earl by fishing in a duck pond, and, barring the earl, I should be a husband more or less satisfactory to her and her family.  George was my friend in the matter, and to him I believed I owed much of my prospects of success.  Soon the relation of my own love affair to that of my cousin Frances will be apparent.

My second day at Sundridge was spent with my uncle and my cousins, Frances remaining at home with us.  Adroit Sarah had talked with her father about the maid-of-honorship and had found an opportunity to tell me that while he was not yet persuaded, he was at least in a receptive mood, ready to listen to what I had to say.  In the evening Frances and Sarah went off to bed early, leaving Sir Richard to the mercies of myself and a flagon of wormwood wine which I had brought in as an ally from the Black Dog Tavern.

At first when I broached the subject of Frances becoming a maid of honor, he turned away from me, saying:—­

“I fear, nephew, I fear!  I confess that I did not expect the suggestion to come from you; you know the court even better than I do.  My dear boy, we might as well send the little girl to the devil at once.”