riding, among the Ladies of Honour, with the Queen in the Park.

"I followed them," he says, "up into Whitehall, and into
the Queen's presence, where all the ladies walked,
talking and fiddling with their hats and feathers, and
changing and trying one another's by one another's heads
and laughing. But, above all, Mrs Stuart in this dresse,
with her hat cocked and a red plume, with her sweet eyes,
little Roman nose, and excellent _taille_, is now the
greatest beauty I ever saw, I think, in my life; and, if
ever woman can, do exceed my Lady Castlemaine, at least
in this dress. Nor do I wonder if the King changes, which
I verily believe is the reason of his coldness to my Lady
Castlemaine."

How many hearts Frances Stuart toyed with and broke in these days of her
girlish beauty and irresponsibility will never be known; but we know
that at least one hopeless wooer committed suicide, and another, Francis
Digby, Lord Bristol's handsome son, after years of unrequited idolatry,
in his despair rushed away to seek and find death in the Dutch war.

And it was not only over men that Frances Stuart cast the spell of her
witchery. One of her earliest and most ardent admirers was none other
than my Lady Castlemaine herself, who alone claimed to hold her
Sovereign's heart. So secure she thought herself of her supremacy that
she not only took the French beauty into favour, but actually encouraged
Charles in his pursuit of her, probably little realising how dangerous a
rival she was taking to her bosom. It is said that this was but an
artifice to divert Charles's attention from an intrigue that she was
carrying on with that rakish beau, Henry Jermyn; but, whatever the