Betsey continued her somewhat rambling remarks, “The only variety is the French Revolution.”

“By the way, Washington has had a distressing letter from Madame Lafayette.  She begs him to receive her boy—­George Washington—­and keep him until the trouble is over.  The Chief fears that in the present temper of the public his reception of Lafayette’s son would be given an embarrassing significance, and yet it is impossible to refuse such a request,—­with Lafayette in an Austrian dungeon, his wife in daily danger of prison or guillotine, and this boy, his only son, with no one but a tutor to protect him.  I offered at once to receive the child into my family—­subject, of course, to your approval.  Should you object?  It would add to your cares—­”

“I have no cares, sir.  I shall be delighted; and he can talk French with the children.”

“I shall send him to Staten Island with Philip and Alex.  Washington will make him a liberal allowance for school and clothing.  I confess I am anxious to receive him, more than anxious to show that my old friendship is undiminished.  I fear to open every packet from Europe, lest I hear of Lafayette’s death.  Fortunately, Morris was able to render some assistance to Madame Lafayette.  Morris is a source of sufficient worry himself, for he is much too independent and bold for a foreign envoy in the thick of mob rule, mad with blood.”

“I hate to think of old friends in trouble,” said Betsey, removing a tear.  “Poor Kitty Duer!  I had another letter from her to-day.  It is pitiful to think of her and the poor little children, with nothing but what Lady Sterling, who has so little, and Lady Mary can give them.  Is there no way of getting Colonel Duer out of Debtor’s prison?”

“I’ve moved heaven and earth, but certain of his creditors are inexorable.  Still, I hope to have him out and on his feet before long.  You are not to worry about other people this evening, for I am particularly happy.  Philip is really remarkable, and I believe that Angelica is going to turn out a musical genius.  What a delight it is to have one person in the world to whom one can brag about one’s offspring without apology.”

“Why, of course they are the most remarkable children in the world—­all five of them,” said Betsey, placidly.

Edward Stevens came in and threw himself on the sofa.  “What a relief to come into this scene of domestic tranquillity, after the row outside!” he exclaimed.  “All the world is in the streets; that is to say, all the daft American world that sympathizes with that bloody horror in France.  The news that the allied armies have been beaten and the Duke of Brunswick was in full retreat when the packets sailed, has apparently driven them frantic with joy.  They are yelling ‘Ca ira,’ bonfires are flaring everywhere, and bells ringing.  All of the men are drunk, and some of the women.  And yet the statesman who must grapple with this portentous problem is gossiping with his wife, and looking as if he had not a care in the world.  Thank Heaven!”