I should be delighted if I could discover the standards whereby women
measure men. Ugly John Prigg is adored by a beautiful wife, from whom no
other man can win a smile. Stupid little Short possesses a tall rare
Venus, and cadaverous Long a bewitching Hebe. Bandy-legged Little Jermyn,
of Whitehall, he of the "pop eyes" and the rickets head, he with neither
manner, presence, brains, rank, nor money, save what he steals and begs,
is beyond doubt the lady-killer of our court, so what are we to do about
it all but wonder and "give it up"?
"While you have changed for the better, if at all," said Hamilton, "I
also have changed for the better, and sadly for the worse, in some
respects. There is a paradox for you, Betty. I'm better and I'm worse. Do
you know what a paradox is"?
"I'm not sure, Master Hamilton. Perhaps Lord Monmouth is one," answered
Betty, laughing, and coming so close to the truth that Hamilton concluded
she knew the word. "He has been coming here of late, and has been trying
to make love to me."
"And succeeding, Betty?" asked George.
"Ah, no. I've stopped waiting on him. He hasn't money enough to buy the
shadow of a smile from me, even though he is the king's son."
"I commend your discretion, Betty," said George. "But if Monmouth and his
friends have been coming here, the Old Swan must be having rare company."
"Yes," returned Betty, with a touch of pride. "A duchess and a princess
are now taking dinner in the small dining room.
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