“It is horrible to think upon,” answered Frances, shivering.  “But he has gone to France, and, thank Heaven, your Majesty is safe.  Perhaps he has gone to kill King Louis.”

“How do you know he has gone to France?” asked the king, much interested.

“I had a letter from him.  He imagines he is in love with me,” answered Frances, speaking in the letter of truth and with a fine air of calmness.  She had received a letter from George in France, but it was before his return to England.

“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed the king.  “Your news contradicts your avowal that you are not in love with him.”

“Shall I be in love with all who say they are in love with me?” asked Frances, glancing up to the king.

“God forbid!” he answered.  “I would have you in love with but one—­one who loves your voice, your beauty, your goodness.”

“Your Majesty may at least rest easy so far as Hamilton is concerned,” she returned.

“But I am glad that he is out of the country, and shall see to it that he doesn’t come back,” said the king.

His Majesty had talked too long, for Frances had learned that his suspicions of her love of Hamilton were not allayed, despite his pretense to the contrary.

“I care not where he be so long as he doesn’t trouble me,” answered Frances, sighing.

“But if it is not one it is another,” said the king, ruefully.  “I hear that the Duke of Tyrconnel is mad for love of you.”

This was a welcome opportunity to Frances, and she quickly used it.  “Yes.  At least, he says he is.  What does your Majesty advise?  Shall I marry him or not?”

“By all means, not!” returned the king, with strong emphasis.  “He would take you from court.  Do you return his love?”

“Well—­” answered Frances, drooping her head and pausing to allow the king to fill the blank.

“But you shall not marry him,” insisted the king.

“But you would not have me live a maid?  Think of the humiliation of having graven on my tombstone:  ‘Mistress Frances Jennings, Age 85.’  I’m going to marry the richest man that asks me.”

“Odds fish! that’s Tyrconnel!” exclaimed the king.

“I’ll find a pretext for sending him to the Tower at once.”

“If you do,” returned Frances, laughing, “there is Little Jermyn.  He will be rich and an earl when his uncle dies.”

“I’ll send him along with Tyrconnel,” declared the king.

“And there is—­” began Frances, laughing.

But the king interrupted her, “I’ll send every man to the Tower that wants to marry you, if I depopulate the court.”

“But here comes old Lady Castlemain,” said Frances, turning to leave the king.  “I can’t quarrel with her, because I can’t swear with her.  May I take my leave, your Majesty?”

“I am sorry to grant it, but good-by,” returned the king.

“Good-by, your Majesty, and thank you,” returned Frances, grateful for much that the king did not know he had told her.  Then she came to me and told me what the king had said, not omitting her conclusions based on what he had left unsaid.