The Federalists drank the toast with acclaim, while the Republicans with equal ostentation did no such thing.  Mr. Pincornet in his corner, hearing the words “Gentlemen” and “Cary,” drank with gusto his very thin wine, and Adam drank because he had always liked the Carys and certainly had no grudge against “Aurelius,” whoever he might be.

In the first lull of sound the man at the table with Lewis Rand spoke in a loud, harsh, but agreeable voice.  “Well, Mr. Cary, the staunchest of Republicans, though he can’t drink that toast, need not deny praise to a masterpiece of words.  Words, sir, not facts.  What I want to know is at whom—­not at what, at whom—­you were firing?  I thought once that Aaron Burr was your mark.  But he’s too light metal—­a mere buccaneer!  That broadside of yours would predicate a general foe—­and I’m damned if I wouldn’t like to know his name!”

“We would all like to know his name,” said Rand.  “And when we know it, I for one would like to hear Mr. Cary’s proofs of faithlessness to obligations.”

In the hush of expectation which fell upon the room the eyes of the two men met.  In Rand’s there was something cold and gleaming, something that was not his father’s nor his grandfather’s, but his own, deadly but markedly courageous.  Cary’s look was more masked, grave, and collected, with the merest quiver of the upper lip.  In the mind of each the curtain strangely lifted, not upon Richmond or Fontenoy or the Court House at Charlottesville, but upon a long past day and the Albemarle woods and two boys gathering nuts together.  This lasted but an instant, then Cary spoke.  “In that letter, Judge Roane, ‘Aurelius’ had no thought of Aaron Burr.  I doubt if in writing he meant to give to any image recognizable face and form.  I think that, very largely, he believed himself but personifying the powers of evil and the tendencies thereto inherent in the Democrat-Republican as in all human doctrine.  If he builded better than he knew, if he held the mirror up, if, in short, there’s any whom the cap fits”—­He paused a moment, then said sternly, “Let the wearer, whoever he may be, look to his steps!” and turned to face Rand.  “Seeing there is no name to divulge, there are of course no proofs of faithlessness.”  He rose.  “It is growing late, gentlemen, and I, for one, am committed to Mrs. Ambler’s party.  Who goes towards the Eagle?”

There was a movement throughout the coffee room.  It was full dark, home beckoned, and a number besides Cary were pledged to the evening’s entertainment.  From every table men were rising, gathering up their papers, when Rand’s voice, harsh, raised, and thick with passion, jarred the room.  “I hold, Mr. Cary, that not even to please his fine imagination is a gentleman justified in publicly weaving caps of so particular a description!”

Cary turned sharply.  “Not even when he weaves it for a man of straw?—­your own expression, Mr. Rand.”