He blushed deeply.

‘Why, sir,’ says he, ‘there is such a thing as patriotism, I hope.’

CHAPTER XVI—­THE HOME-COMING OF MR. ROWLEY’S VISCOUNT

By eight the next morning Dudgeon and I had made our parting.  By that time we had grown to be extremely familiar; and I would very willingly have kept him by me, and even carried him to Amersham Place.  But it appeared he was due at the public-house where we had met, on some affairs of my great-uncle the Count, who had an outlying estate in that part of the shire.  If Dudgeon had had his way the night before, I should have been arrested on my uncle’s land and by my uncle’s agent, a culmination of ill-luck.

A little after noon I started, in a hired chaise, by way of Dunstable.  The mere mention of the name Amersham Place made every one supple and smiling.  It was plainly a great house, and my uncle lived there in style.  The fame of it rose as we approached, like a chain of mountains; at Bedford they touched their caps, but in Dunstable they crawled upon their bellies.  I thought the landlady would have kissed me; such a flutter of cordiality, such smiles, such affectionate attentions were called forth, and the good lady bustled on my service in such a pother of ringlets and with such a jingling of keys.  ’You’re probably expected, sir, at the Place?  I do trust you may ’ave better accounts of his lordship’s ’elth, sir.  We understood that his lordship, Mosha de Carwell, was main bad.  Ha, sir, we shall all feel his loss, poor, dear, noble gentleman; and I’m sure nobody more polite!  They do say, sir, his wealth is enormous, and before the Revolution, quite a prince in his own country!  But I beg your pardon, sir; ’ow I do run on, to be sure; and doubtless all beknown to you already!  For you do resemble the family, sir.  I should have known you anywheres by the likeness to the dear viscount.  Ha, poor gentleman, he must ’ave a ’eavy ’eart these days.’

In the same place I saw out of the inn-windows a man-servant passing in the livery of my house, which you are to think I had never before seen worn, or not that I could remember.  I had often enough, indeed, pictured myself advanced to be a Marshal, a Duke of the Empire, a Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour, and some other kickshaws of the kind, with a perfect rout of flunkeys correctly dressed in my own colours.  But it is one thing to imagine, and another to see; it would be one thing to have these liveries in a house of my own in Paris—­it was quite another to find them flaunting in the heart of hostile England; and I fear I should have made a fool of myself, if the man had not been on the other side of the street, and I at a one-pane window.  There was something illusory in this transplantation of the wealth and honours of a family, a thing by its nature so deeply rooted in the soil; something ghostly in this sense of home-coming so far from home.