“Oh, now, no hard names, sir.  You see, several of us—­some good patriots, too, with the country’s best interests at heart—­couldn’t swallow this French alliance; we saw that if we ever did win by it, we should only be exchanging tyrants of our own blood for tyrants of frog-eaters.  We began to think England would take us back on good terms if the war could be ended; and we considered the state of the country, the interests of trade—­indeed, ’twas chiefly the thought of your business, the hope of seeing it what it once was, that drove me into the thing.”

“You wretched hypocrite!” interposed Mr. Faringfield.

“Oh, well; misunderstand me, as usual.  Call me names, if you like.  I’m only telling the truth, and what you wished to know—­what she wouldn’t tell you.  I’m not as bad as some; I can up and confess, when all’s over.  Well, as I was about to say, we had everything ready, and the night was set; and then, all of a sudden, Phil Winwood swoops down on me; treats me in a most unbrotherly fashion, I must say” (Ned cast an oblique look at his embarrassed shoulder); “and alarmed the camp.  And when the British party rode up, instead of catching Washington they caught hell.  And I leave it to you, sir, whether your daughter there, after playing the traitor to her husband’s cause, for the sake of her lover; didn’t turn around and play the traitor to her own game, for the benefit of her husband, and the ruin of her brother.  Such damnableness!”

“‘For the sake of her lover,’” Mr. Faringfield repeated.  “What do you mean by that, sir?” The phrase, indeed, had given us all a disagreeable start.

“What I say, sir.  How could he be otherwise?  I guessed it before; and I became sure of it this evening, from the way he spoke of her at General Knyphausen’s quarters.”

“What a lie!” cried Margaret.  “Captain Falconer is a gentleman; he’s not of a kind to talk about women who have given him no reason to do so.  ’Tis ridiculous!  You maligning villain!”

“Oh, ’twasn’t what he said, my dear; ’twas his manner whenever he mentioned you.  When a man like him handles a woman’s name so delicate-like, as if ’twas glass and might break—­so grave-like, as if she was a sacred subject—­it means she’s put herself on his generosity.”

Margaret affected a derisive laugh, as at her brother’s pretensions to wisdom.

“Oh, I know all the stages,” he continued, watching her with a malicious calmness of self-confidence.  “When gentry of his sort are first struck with a lady, but not very deep, they speak out their admiration bold and gallant; when they find they’re hit seriously, but haven’t made sure of her, they speak of her with make-believe carelessness or mere respect:  they don’t like to show how far gone they are.  But when she’s come to an understanding with ’em, and put ’em under obligations and responsibilities—­it’s only then they touch her name so tender and considerate, as if it was so fragile.  But that stage doesn’t last for ever, my young lady—­bear that in mind!”