sure. Between the two women he had a lively month. Mrs.
Croix wrote him a letter a day. At first it was evident that she had
taken herself in hand, that her pen was guided by her marvellous
intelligence. She apologized charmingly for her exhibition of temper,
and for any reflection she might have made upon the most estimable of
women, who (with a sigh) had the happiness to be the wife of Alexander
Hamilton. She ignored his ultimatum and asked him to come at once, and
talk the matter over calmly. Hamilton replied with the graceful
playfulness of which he was master, but left no doubt of his continuity
of purpose. After the interchange of several letters of this complexion,
in which Mrs. Croix was quite conscious of revealing the ample resources
of her wit, spirit, and tact, she broke down and went through every
circumstance of a despairing woman fighting to recover the supreme
happiness of her life. At times she was humble, she prostrated herself
at his feet. Again she raved with all the violence of her nature. Her
pride, and it was very great, was submerged under the terrible agony of
her heart. Even passion was forgotten, and she was sincere for the
moment when she vowed that she had no wish beyond his mere presence.

Hamilton was horribly distressed. He would rather she had turned upon
him at once with all her tigerish capacity for hate. But he had given
his word to his wife, and that was the end of it. He answered every
letter, but his gallantry and kindness were pitch and oil, and it was
with profound relief that he watched the gradual stiffening of her
pride, the dull resentment, even although he knew it meant that an
enemy, subtle, resourceful, and venomous, was in the process of making.
In her final letter she gave him warning--and a last opportunity. But of
this he took no notice.

Meanwhile, Betsey had led him a dance. Naturally bright, but heretofore
too sheltered and happy, too undisturbed in her trust, she had done
little thinking, little analysis, felt nothing but amusement for the
half-comprehended vagaries of men. But jealousy and suffering give a
woman, in a week, a fill of knowledge and cunning that will serve her a
lifetime. Betsey developed both coquetry and subtlety. She knew that if
she obtained command of the situation now, she should hold it to the
end, and she was determined that this crisis should result in a close
and permanent union. If she finally believed his denial, she was much
too shrewd