Margaret’s demeanour to him, indeed, had not shown the smallest softening.  But to the rest of the world, after the immediate effects of that Sunday scene had worn off, she seemed vastly more sparkling and fascinating than ever before:  whether she was really so, and of intention, or whether the appearance was from contrast with her treatment of Philip, I dare not say.  But the impression was Philip’s, I think, as well as every one’s else; and infinitely it multiplied the sorrow of which he would not speak, but which his countenance could not conceal.  When the news of the affair at Bunker’s Hill was discussed at the supper-table one evening in June, I being present, and Margaret heard how bravely the British charged the third and successful time up to the rebel works, after being hurled back twice by a very hell of musketry, she dropped her fork, and clapped her hands, crying: 

“Bravo, bravo!  ’Tis such men that grow in England.  I could love every one of ’em!”

“Brave men, I allow,” said Philip; “but as for their victory, ’twas but a technical one, if accounts be true.  Their loss was greater than ours; and the fight proved that Americans can stand before British regulars.”

Margaret paid no more notice than if Philip had not spoken—­’twas her practice now to ignore his speeches not directed to herself alone—­and when he had done, she said, blithely, to one of the young De Lanceys, who was a guest: 

“And so they drove the Yankees out!  And what then, cousin?”

“Why, that was all.  But as for the men that grow in England, you’ll find some of us grown in America quite as ready to fight for the king, if matters go on.  Only wait till Governor Tryon sets about calling for loyal regiments.  We shall be falling over one another in the scramble to volunteer.  But I mean to be first.”

“Good, cousin!” she cried.  “You may kiss my hand for that—­nay, my cheek, if I could reach it to you.”

“Faith,” said De Lancey, after gallantly touching her fingers with his lips, “if all the ladies in New York had such hands, and offered ’em to be kissed by each recruit for the king, there’d be no man left to fight on the rebel side.”

“Why, his Majesty is welcome to my two hands for the purpose, and my face, too,” she rattled on.  “But some of our New York rebels were going to do great things:  ’tis two months now, and yet we see nothing of their doings.”

“Have a little patience, madam,” said Philip, very quietly.  “We rebels may be further advanced in our arrangements than is known in all quarters.”

The truth of this was soon evident.  In the open spaces of the town—­the parade-ground (or Bowling Green) outside the fort; the common at the head of the town; before the very barracks in Chambers Street that had just been vacated by the last of the royal troops in New York, they having sailed for Boston rather for their own safety than to swell the army there—­there was continual instructing and drilling of awkward Whigs.  Organisation had proceeded throughout the province, whose entire rebel force was commanded by Mr. Philip Schuyler, of Albany; subordinate to whom was Mr. Richard Montgomery, an Irish gentleman who had first set foot in America at Louisbourg, as a king’s officer, and who now resided beyond Kingsbridge.