Frances and I walked over to the park, where we stood for a time watching the Duke of York and John Churchill playing pall-mall, but the day growing cold, we soon continued our walk over to the Serpentine, where we found Tyrconnel and several other gentlemen riding.  Tyrconnel dismounted and, leading his horse, came to us.  He took no notice of me, but bowed to Frances, saying:—­

“I hear it from the king himself that Mistress Jennings has been calling on her friend, George Hamilton, at his lodgings in the Old Swan.”

“And if so, is it a matter of which you have any right to speak?” asked Frances, smiling.

“I have a right to withdraw the proposal of marriage I so foolishly made,” he retorted.

“Yes, my lord,” answered Frances, laughing softly.  “But you need not be angry if I am not.  How fortunate for me that I had not accepted.”  Then turning to leave and looking back at him:  “May we not still be friends, my lord?  You have friends at court who are as bad as I, even if what you say be true.  You say it is true; the king says it is true; therefore it must be true.  Two men so wise and honest could not be mistaken in so small a matter, nor would they lie solely for the purpose of injuring a woman.  No, it must be true, my lord, and I congratulate you on your timely withdrawal.”

We had not taken fifty steps till Tyrconnel gave his horse to a boy and came running after us, infinitely more eager to retract the withdrawal than he had been to withdraw his proposal.  He protested by all things holy his total disbelief in the scandalous story, and begged Frances not to remember what he had said in jealous anger.

“Be careful, my lord.  Do not make another mistake,” said Frances, laughing in his face.  “I did visit the Old Swan this morning, and the king told me less than thirty minutes ago that Master Hamilton lives there.  It is said by those who claim to know that he is in France, but they must be wrong, and I must have seen him.  The king says I did, and he can do no wrong.  I neither deny nor affirm, though I fancy that my real friends will not believe me guilty of the indiscretion.”

“I do not believe it,” protested Tyrconnel.  “I know you are all that is good.”

“Thank you, my lord,” returned Frances.  “If I am good, I remain so for my own sake.  As for the gossips, they may think what they please, talk about me to their hearts’ content, and go to the devil for his content, if he can find it in them.”

Seeing that Tyrconnel wanted to speak with Frances alone, I drew to a little distance for the purpose of giving him an opportunity to press his suit, in which I so heartily wished him success.

It is uphill work making love to a woman whose heart is filled to overflowing with love of another man, and I was sorry for poor earnest Tyrconnel as I watched him pleading his case with Frances.  He was not a burning light intellectually, but he entertained a just estimate of himself and was wise enough not to take any one of the daintily baited hooks that were dangled before him by some of the fairest anglers in England.  But manlike, he yearned for the hook that was not in the water.