Immediately all of Sir Richard's hatred of Charles II fell away, and once
more the king shone in the resplendent light of his divine appointment.
While Frances estimated the king's generosity at its true value, she was
glad her father had received even a small part of what was his just due,
and although she knew the restoration had been made to please, and, if
possible, to win her, she was glad to have spoiled the royal Philistine,
and despised him more than ever before, if that were possible.
Sir Richard's good fortune brought a gleam of joy to Frances, but it also
brought a pang of regret, because it had come too late. Her only purpose
in going to Whitehall had been to marry a rich nobleman and thereby raise
the fallen fortunes of her house. Now that reason existed no longer, and
if George were here, she could throw herself away upon him with injury to
no one but herself. But George was not here, and liberty to throw herself
away had come too late to be of any value.
Every day during the fortnight that Frances remained at home, she asked
if I had any news from court, meaning the French court, but using the
form of inquiry to avoid acquainting her father and Sarah with the real
cause of her solicitude.
But my answers were always, "Oh, nothing but Castlemain's new tantrum,"
or "The duke's defeat at pall-mall."
Frances was the last girl in the world, save, perhaps Sarah, who I should
have supposed capable of languishing and dying of love, but the former
she did before my eyes, and the latter I almost began to fear if news did
not reach us soon from George.
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