Soon after the foregoing conversation, George went to Paris and remained
a few days with King Louis, whom he had known since early youth. His evil
star brought him back to London the day before Frances left Sundridge,
though, he knew nothing of her departure. I did not know of his return,
nor did I know of his remote connection with the terrible events
attending her arrival till long after they happened.

* * * * *

While Frances, Roger, and the fat horses were struggling through the mud,
the darkness, and the rain, a band of congenial spirits were gathered
about the huge fireplace in the taproom of the Leg Tavern in King Street,
Westminster, a stone's throw from Whitehall Palace. There was my Lord
Berkeley, the king's especial crony, who possessed all his royal master's
vices without any of his Majesty's meagre virtues. He imitated the king
in dress, manner, cut of beard, and even in the use of Charles's favorite
oath, "Odds fish!" an expletive too inane even to be wicked, being a
distortion of the words "God's flesh." There was young Crofts, the
king's acknowledged son, Duke of Monmouth by grace of his mother's
frailties. He was a living example of the doctrine of total depravity
in what purported to be a man. There was John Churchill, a very decent
fellow in a politic way, though in bad company. He afterward married
my laconic cousin Sarah, whose shrewdness made him the first Duke of
Marlborough, and last, I regret to chronicle, was George Hamilton,
resting from his labors at self-reform. Soon after dark another congenial
spirit, the most pusillanimous of them all, young William Wentworth, Sir
William's son and Roger's nephew, entered the taproom dripping with rain.
Before going to the fire, he called Crofts and Berkeley to one side.
Placing his arms about their necks, he drew their faces close to his and
made the following remarkable communication in a low whisper:--