He never quarrelled with Narcissus, whose foibles amused him, but for whose slow judgment he had a more than brotherly respect.

* * * * * * * * *

The Westcotes, though (at due intervals and with due notice given) they entertained as handsomely as the Lord Lieutenant himself, were not a household to be bounced (so to speak) into promiscuous or extemporised hospitality.  For an ordinary dinner-party, Dorothea would pen the invitations three weeks ahead, Endymion devote an hour to selecting his guests, and Narcissus spend a morning in the Bayfield cellar, which he supervised and in which he took a just pride.  And so well was this inelasticity recognised, so clearly was it understood that by no circumstances could Endymion Westcote permit himself to be upset, that none of the snowed-up company at “The Dogs” thought a bit the worse of him for having gone home and left them to shift as best they could.

Dorothea, when at about half-past ten she put on her bonnet and cloak and stepped down to visit them—­the prisoners having by that time cleared the pavement—­found herself surrounded by a crew humorously apologetic for their toilettes, profoundly envious of her better luck, but on excellent terms with one another and the younger ones, at any rate, who had borne the worst of the discomfort—­enjoying the adventure thoroughly.

“But the life and soul of it all was that M. Raoul,” confessed Lady Bateson’s niece.

“By George!” echoed the schoolboy who had danced the “Soldier’s Joy” with Dorothea, “I wouldn’t have believed it of a Frenchy.”

For some reason Dorothea was not too well pleased.

“But I do not see M. Raoul.”

“Oh, he’s down by the bridge, helping the relief party.  One would guess him worn out.  He ran from lodging to lodging, turning the occupants out of their beds and routing about for fresh linen.  They say he even carried old Mrs. Kekewich pick-a-back through the snow.”

“And tucked her in bed,” added the schoolboy.  “And then he came back, wet almost to the waist, and danced.”

He looked roguishly at Lady Bateson’s niece, and the pair exploded in laughter.

They ran off as General Rochambeau, jaded and unshaven, approached and saluted Dorothea.

“Until Miss Westcote appeared, we held our own against the face of day.  Now, alas, the conspiracy can no longer be kept up.”

“You had no compliment for me last night, General.”

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle.”  He lowered his voice and spoke earnestly.  “I have a genuine one for you to-day—­I compliment your heart.  M. Raoul has told me of your interest in our poor compatriots, and what you intend—­”

“I fear I can do little,” Dorothea interrupted, mindful of her late encounter and (as she believed) defeat.  “By all accounts, M. Raoul appears to have made himself agreeable to all,” she added.