She who I hoped would one day be the party of the second part was Mary Hamilton, sister to Count Anthony and George Hamilton, mention of whom was made at the outset of this history.
I myself may have been lacking in morals, but at my worst I was a saint compared to George Hamilton and his friends, Lord Berkeley, young Wentworth, and the king's son, James Crofts, Duke of Monmouth.

There was, however, this difference between George and his friends: he was gentlemanly picturesque in wickedness; they were nauseous in the _filthiness_ of vice.
After I became a suitor for the hand of George Hamilton's sister, I had closed my eyes to his shortcomings and, for some time prior to my Sundridge visit, had sought to further my cause with her by winning her brother's help.

I had known Hamilton many years before, when we were all exiles in Holland and France, and had always liked him.

In fact, we had been friends from our youth, and while in latter years I had not seen much of him, having avoided him because of his vicious mode of life, I had found no difficulty in taking up our old intimacy.

At the time of which I am writing I was sure that he was my friend and had given him good reason to think the same of me.