“What madness!” exclaimed Mr. Morris, as the door closed upon the company.  “This is a country where everything is talked about and nothing understood, my boy.”  He sank into a chair opposite Calvert’s and poured himself a glass of wine.

“There goes a man who, in his vanity, thinks himself capable of controlling these terrific forces he has helped to awaken, but, if I mistake not, he is not equal to the business in hand.  He has the best intentions, but is lacking in judgment and strength.  He has le besoin de briller, unfortunately, and does from vanity what he should do from conviction.  I am almost glad that affairs call me to England for a while and that I shall not be a witness to the Marquis’s mistakes and the horrors toward which I see France fast drifting.”

“You are leaving for England?” asked Calvert, in surprise.

“Yes,” returned Mr. Morris.  “I have thought for some time that it would be necessary for me to go to London on business connected with my brother’s estate in America, and letters which I received lately have decided me to go at once.  Moreover,” and here he hesitated slightly and laughed his dry, humorous laugh, “I have ever thought discretion the better part of valor, my boy.  To speak plainly, Madame de Flahaut becomes too exigeante.  I have told her that I am perfectly my own master with respect to her, and that, having no idea of inspiring her with a tender passion, I have no idea either of subjecting myself to one, but I hardly think she understands my attitude toward her.  Besides,” he went on, with so sudden a change of tone and sentiment that Calvert could not forbear smiling, “I find her too agreeable to bear with equanimity her treatment of me.  The other day, at Madame de Chastellux’s, her reception of me was such that I think I would not again have troubled her with a visit had she not sent for me to-day.”

“And did you go?” asked Calvert, smiling.

“Yes,” said Mr. Morris, bursting out laughing.  “Of course I went, Ned—­that is the way with all of us—­the women treat us with contempt and we go away in a huff, vowing never to see them again, and they beckon to us and back we go, glad to have a word or glance again.  She treated me very civilly indeed, and received me at her toilet—­’twas a very decent performance, I assure you, Ned.  She undressed, even to the shift, with the utmost modesty, and I would have found it a pleasant enough experience, if a trifle astounding to my American mind, had it not been for the presence of the Bishop of Autun, who came in and who is confoundedly at his ease in Madame de Flahaut’s society.  High ho! we two are not the only favored ones.  She is a thorough-paced flirt and plays off Curt against Wycombe—­he is Lansdowne’s son and her latest admirer—­or the Bishop against myself, as it suits her whim.  I would warn you to beware of women as the authors of all mischief and suffering, did I not think it too late,” he said, looking keenly at the young man, who blushed deeply.  “Come to London with me, Ned,” he went on, impulsively, after an instant’s silence.  “I think you and I will not be bad travelling companions and will enjoy the journey together prodigiously.”