I started to speak to her, but there came a call from the end of the table, and we raised our glasses to Sir Lupus, for which civility he expressed his thanks and gave us the ladies, which we drank standing, and reversed our glasses with a cheer.

Then Walter Butler gave us “The Ormonds and the Earls of Arran,” an amazing vanity, which shamed me so that I sat biting my lip, furious to see Sir John wink at Colonel Claus, and itching to fling my glass at the head of this young fool whose brain seemed cracked with brooding on his pedigree.

Meat was served ere I was called on, but later, a delicious Burgundy being decanted, all called me with a persistent clamor, so that I was obliged to ask permission of Sir Lupus, then rise, still tingling with the memory of the silly toast offered by Walter Butler.

“I give you,” I said, “a republic where self-respect balances the coronet, where there is no monarch, no high-priest, but only a clean altar, served by the parliament of a united people.  Gentlemen, raise your glasses to the colonies of America and their ancient liberties!”

And, amazed at what I had said, and knowing that I had not meant to say it, I lifted my glass and drained it.

Astonishment altered every face.  Walter Butler mechanically raised his glass, then set it down, then raised it once more, gazing blankly at me; and I saw others hesitate, as though striving to recollect the exact terms of my toast.  But, after a second’s hesitation, all drank sitting.  Then each looked inquiringly at me, at neighbors, puzzled, yet already partly reassured.

“Gad!” said Colonel Claus, bluntly, “I thought at first that Burgundy smacked somewhat of Boston tea.”

“The Burgundy’s sound enough,” said Colonel John Butler, grimly.

“So is the toast,” bawled Sir Lupus.  “It’s a pacific toast, a soothing sentiment, neither one thing not t’other.  Dammy, it’s a toast no Quaker need refuse.”

“Sir Lupus, your permission!” broke out Captain Campbell.  “Gentlemen, it is strange that not one of his Majesty’s officers has proposed the King!” He looked straight at me and said, without turning his head:  “All loyal at this table will fill.  Ladies, gentlemen, I give you his Majesty the King!”

The toast was finished amid cheers.  I drained my glass and turned it down with a bow to Captain Campbell, who bowed to me as though greatly relieved.

The fiddles, bassoons, and guitars were playing and the slaves singing when the noise of the cheering died away; and I heard Dorothy beside me humming the air and tapping the floor with her silken shoe, while she moistened macaroons in a glass of Madeira and nibbled them with serene satisfaction.

“You appear to be happy,” I whispered.

“Perfectly.  I adore sweets.  Will you try a dish of cinnamon cake?  Sop it in Burgundy; they harmonize to a most heavenly taste....  Look at Magdalen Brant, is she not sweet?  Her cousin is Molly Brant, old Sir William’s sweetheart, fled to Canada....  She follows this week with Betty Austin, that black-eyed little mischief-maker on Sir John’s right, who owes her diamonds to Guy Johnson.  La!  What a gossip I grow!  But it’s county talk, and all know it, and nobody cares save the Albany blue-noses and the Van Cortlandts, who fall backward with standing too straight—­”