“’Ce drapeau glorieux auquel, en sanglotant, Se prosternent affaises vos membres, veterans!’

“‘Vary sorry, damitol, shake hands, beg your pardon.’”

The Vicomte forgot his languor, and burlesqued the scene with real talent.

Dorothea, however, was not amused.

“You say my brother is at ‘The Dogs,’ Monsieur?  I think I will go to him.”

“You must allow me, then, to escort you.”

“Oh, the street is quite safe.  Your countrymen will not suspect me of exulting over their misfortunes.”

“Nevertheless—­” he insisted, and walked beside her.

A mixed crowd of French and English still surrounded the chaise, to which a couple of postboys were attaching the relay:  the French no longer furious, now that an apology had been offered and the flag hidden, but silent and sulky yet; the English inclined to think the young lieutenant hardly served, not to say churlishly.  Frenchmen might be thin-skinned; but war was war, and surely Britons had a right to raise three cheers for a victory.  Besides he had begged pardon at once, and offered to shake hands like a gentleman—­that is, as soon as he discovered whose feelings were hurt; for naturally the fisticuffs had come first, and in these Master Raoul had taken as good as he brought.  As the Vicomte cleared a path for her to the porch, where Endymion stood shaking hands and bidding adieu, Dorothea caught her first and last glimpse of this traveller, who—­without knowing it, without seeing her face to remember it, or even learning her name—­was to deflect the slow current of her life, and send it whirling down a strange channel, giddy, precipitous, to an end unguessed.

She saw a fresh-complexioned lad, somewhat flushed and red in the face, but of frank and pleasant features; dressed in a three-cornered cocked-hat, blue coat piped with white and gilt-buttoned, white breeches and waistcoat, and broad black sword-belt; a youngster of the sort that loves a scrimmage or a jest, but is better in a scrimmage than in a jest when the laugh goes against him.  He was eying the chaise just now, and obviously cursing the hour in which he had decorated it with laurel.

Yet on the whole in a trying situation he bore himself well.

“Ah, much obliged to you, Vicomte!” Endymion hailed the pair.  “There has been a small misunderstanding, my dear Dorothea; not the slightest cause for alarm!  Still, you had better pass through to the coffee-room and wait for me.”

Dorothea dismissed M. de Tocqueville with a bow, passed into the dark passage and pushed open the coffee-room door.

Within sat a young man, his elbows on the table, and his face bowed upon his arms.  His fingers convulsively twisted a torn scrap of bunting; his shoulders heaved.  It was M. Raoul.

Dorothea paused in the doorway and spoke his name.  He did not look up.

She stepped towards him.

“M.  Raoul!”