ty, Hamilton was
glad to respond, for at this period he was making a good deal of money.

His promised bow to Mrs. Croix he deferred from day to day, pleading to
himself the pressure of work, which was submerging; but while he
reproached himself for ingratitude, he knew that he dreaded the meeting:
the old spirit of adventure within him, long quiescent, tapped
alluringly on the doors of his prudence. That she did not write again,
even to congratulate him as other friends had done, but added to his
discomfort, for he knew that her pride was now in arms, and that she
must be deeply wounded. He heard of her constantly, and at the
procession in his honour he had seen her, leaning on the arm of General
Knox, a dazzling, but angelic vision in blue and white, at which even
the bakers, wig-makers, foresters, tanners, and printers had turned to
stare. One of the latter had leaped down from the moving platform on
which he was printing a poem of occasion by William Duer, and begged her
on his knee to deign to receive a copy. She held weekly receptions,
which were attended by two-thirds of the leading men in town, and
Hamilton's intimate friends discoursed of her constantly. Croix was
supposed to have been seized with a passion for travelling in savage
jungles, and it was the general belief that his death would be
announced as soon as the lady should find it convenient to go into
mourning. It was plain to the charitable that he had left her with
plenty of money, for she dressed like the princess she looked, and her
entertainments lacked no material attraction. The gossip was more
furious than ever, but the most assiduous scandal-monger could connect
no one man with her name, nor trace her income to other than its reputed
source. More than once Hamilton had passed her coach, and she had bowed
gravely, with neither challenge nor reproach in her sweet haughty eyes.
After these quick passings Hamilton usually gave her a few moments of
intense thought. He marvelled at her curious intimate knowledge of him,
not only of the less known episodes of his career, but of more than one
of his mental processes. It is true, she might have led Troup or Fish
into gossip and analysis, but her sympathy counted heavily. She drew him
by many strings, and sometimes the response thrilled him unbearably. He
felt like a man who stood outside the gates of Paradise, bolting them
fast. Still, he could quite forget her in his work; and it is probable
that but f