“To tell you the truth, Mademoiselle, I find a hand at picquet with the Admiral less fatiguing for two old gentlemen than these public gaieties.”

“In other words, you are nursing him.  They tell me he has never been well since that night of the snowstorm.”

“Your informants may now add that he is better; these few Spring days have done wonders for his rheumatism, and, indeed, he is dressed and abroad this morning.”

“Which explains why you are willing to stop and chat with me, instead of hurrying off to the Post Office to ask for his letter—­that letter which never comes.”

“So M. Raoul has been telling you all about us?”

Dorothea blushed.

“He happened to speak of it, at one of my working parties—­”

“He has a fine gift for the pathetic, that young man; oh, yes, and a pretty humour too!  I can fancy what he makes of us—­poor old Damon and Pythias—­while he holds the skeins; with a smile for poor old Pythias’ pigtail, and a tremor of the voice for the Emperor’s tabatiere, and a tear, no doubt, for the letter which never comes.  M. Raoul is great with an audience.”

“You do him injustice, General.  An audience of half-a-dozen old women!”

General Rochambeau had an answer to this on his tongue, but repressed it.

“Ah, here comes the Admiral!” he cried, as the gaunt old man came shuffling down the street towards them, with his stoop, his cross-grained features drawn awry with twinges of rheumatism, his hands crossed above his tall cane.  All Axcester laughed at his long blue surtout, his pigtail and little round hat.  But Dorothea always found him formidable, and wanted to run away.  “Admiral, I was just about to tell Miss Westcote that the time is come to congratulate her.  Here is winter past—­except that of two years ago, the hardest known in Axcester; and, thanks to her subscription lists and working parties, our countrymen have never gone so well fed and warmly clad.”

“Which,” growled the Admiral, “does not explain why no less than eight of them have broken their parole.  An incredible, a shameful number!”

“As time goes on, Admiral, they grow less patient.  Hope deferred—­”

Ta-ra, tara-ra!  Ta-ra, tara-ra-ra! The notes of the guard’s horn broke in upon Dorothea’s excuse.  Groups scattered, market carts were hastily backed alongside the pavement, and down the mid-thoroughfare came the mail at a gallop, with crack of whip and rushing chime of bits and swingle-bars.

Dorothea watched the crowd closing round it as it drew up by “The Dogs,” and turned to note that the Admiral’s face was pale and his eyes sought those of his old friend.

“Better leave it to me to-day, if Miss Westcote will excuse me.”

General Rochambeau lifted his hat and hurried after the crowd.

Then Dorothea understood.  The old man beside her had lost courage to pick up his old habit; at the last moment his friend must go for the letter which never came.  She cast about to say something; her last words had been of hope deferred—­it would not do to take up her speech there . . .