“Yes,” he was saying, “it is tasteful, and something more.  It illustrates, as you well say, the better side of our excitable neighbours across the Channel.  Setting patriotism apart and regarding the question merely in its—­ah—­philosophical aspect, it has often occurred to me to wonder how a nation so expert in the arts of life, so—­how shall I put it?—­”

“Natty,” suggested one of his hearers; but he waved the word aside.

“—­of such lightness of touch, as I might describe it,—­I say, it has often occurred to me to wonder how such a nation could so far mistake its destiny and the designs of Providence (inscrutable though they be) as to embark on a career of foreign conquest which can only—­ah—­ have one end.”

“Come to grief,” put in Lady Bateson, a dowager in a crimson cap with military feathers.  She was supposed to cherish a hopeless passion for Endymion.  Also, she was supposed to be acting as Dorothea’s chaperon tonight; but having with little exertion found partners for a niece of her own, a sprightly young lady on a visit from Bath, felt that she deserved to relax her mind in a little intellectual talk.  Endymion accepted her remark with magnificent tolerance.

“Precisely.”  He inclined towards her.  “You have hit it precisely.”

Dorothea stole a glance at her brother.  Military and hunt uniforms were de rigueur at these Axcester balls, and a Major of Yeomanry more splendid than Endymion Westcote it would have been hard to find in England.  He stood with a hand negligently resting on his left hip—­ the word hip,—­his right foot advanced, the toe of his polished boot tapping the floor.  His smile, indulgent as it hovered over Lady Bateson, descended to this protruded leg and became complacent, as it had a right to be.

“Well, I’ve always said so from the start,” Lady Bateson announced, “and now I’m sure of it.  I don’t mind Frenchmen as Frenchmen; but what I say is, let them stick to their fal-de-rals.”

“That is the side of them which, in my somewhat responsible position, I endeavour to humour.  You see the result.”  He swept his hand towards the painted panels.  “One thing I must say, in justice to my charges, I find them docile.”

Dorothea had confidence in her brother’s tact and his unerring eye for his audience.  Yet she looked about her nervously, to make sure that of the few prisoners selected for invitation to the ball, none was within earshot.  The Vicomte de Tocqueville, a stoical young patrician, had chosen a partner for the next dance, and was leading her out with that air of vacuity with which he revenged himself upon the passing hour of misfortune.  “Go on,” it seemed to say, “but permit me to remind you that, so far as I am concerned, you do not exist.”  Old General Rochambeau and old Rear-Admiral de Wailly-Duchemin, in worn but carefully-brushed regimentals, patrolled the far end of the room arm-in-arm.  The Admiral seemed in an ill humour; and this was nothing new, he grumbled at everything.  But the General’s demeanour, as he trotted up and down beside his friend (doubtless doing his best to pacify him), betrayed an unwonted agitation.  It occurred to Dorothea that he had not yet greeted her and paid his usual compliment.