“I shall not fail,” she answered confidently, though not in vanity.

“But Hamilton said he would return to the siege when he had made his fortune,” I suggested.

“Of that I have no hope,” she returned dolefully, “and I shall put him out of my thoughts if I can, as soon as I can.”

“It must be done now,” I returned emphatically.

“Ay, it is easy to say ‘now,’ but ‘now’ is a hard, hard time.  It is much easier to do a difficult thing to-morrow.  But do not fear, Baron Ned.  It shall be done, and I shall marry a duke or an earl, loathing him.”

She was almost ready to weep, so, believing that she would like to be alone, I left her.

Within half an hour she was at home, sitting in a low chair by her father’s side, laughing, happy, and beautiful, with that rare, indefinable home charm a woman may have which is as far beyond the mere beauty of hair and skin and eyes as the sparkle of a bright mysterious star is beyond the beauty of the moon’s pale sheen.

With all my cousin’s marvellous beauty, her rarest charm lay in her gracious manner, her unobtrusive vivacity, and her quaint combination of Sarah’s Machiavellian wisdom with the intense femininity of Eve.  Add to these qualities the unmistakable mark which a pure heart leaves on the face, and we complete the picture of one who in a short time was acknowledged to be without a peer in Whitehall, the most famous beauty court the world has ever known.

Before I left Sundridge it had been agreed among us all that Frances should go to London, though the plans had not been arranged nor the time fixed.  There was no need of haste, as the choosing of the maids would not be closed for two months or more.  I left with my uncle funds necessary for the purchase of gowns, and the payment of other expenses, and, with his consent, undertook to notify the Duchess of York that Frances would seek to enter her Grace’s service in the near future.  Then I went back to London, and when next I saw my cousin it was in the shadow of a tragedy.

My uncle’s humble friend, Roger Wentworth, the leather merchant of Sundridge, had a brother living in London, who was also a leather merchant, Sir William Wentworth.  He had been Lord Mayor at one time, and had been knighted by the king because of a loan made by the city to his Majesty.  Sir William was an honest, simple man, who cared little to rise above his class, but he had a wife who thrilled to the heart whenever she heard the words “Lady Wentworth,” and experienced a spasm of delight whenever she saw her name in the news letters or journals.

Sir William had a son, also, who imagined himself to be ornamental, but laid no claim to usefulness of any sort.  Lady Wentworth concurred heartily and proudly in her son’s opinion of himself and encouraged his uselessness to a point where it became worthlessness.  But Sir William took no pains to conceal his disappointment and disgust.  Young William held a small post at court, and, being supplied with money by his mother, was one of the evil spirits of the set composed of Crofts, Berkeley, Little Jermyn, the court lady-killer, and others too numerous and too vicious to mention.  Wentworth was goose to these pluckers and was willing to give his feathers in exchange for their toleration.