"Ah, well, we'll have it together here at home," said the king, "so that
you need not go abroad for it hereafter."
"No, no, I shall never again drink wormwood," protested Frances. "Betty
Pickering tells me it causes vapors in the head, horrid waking dreams,
and in the end incurable spasms."
"Your resolution is well taken," returned the king. "We shall seek a
harmless substitute."
At this point in the conversation his Majesty looked toward me, whispered
a word to Frances, and they walked down the garden path to the fountain,
while I waited at Bowling Green for Frances's return. When she came back,
she told me in detail all that passed between her and the king.
After they had left me, the king began to talk, and Frances seldom
interrupted him save to draw him out, knowing that a talking man sooner
or later tells a great deal that he should have left unsaid. This is
especially true if a shrewd listener reads between his words.
"Nelly Gwynn tells me that you love George Hamilton," said the king, "and
in my eyes, that is his greatest crime."
Already his Majesty had told a great deal.
"I am surprised at Mistress Gwynn's imagination and her lack of
truthfulness," returned Frances. "I told her I hated him, and she herself
heard me deny that I knew him when he offered to speak to me two months
ago or more at the Old Swan. Mistress Gwynn kissed him. I refused to
recognize him.
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