‘Money will do it,’ said Beauchamp.

Mr. Austin disagreed with that observation.

‘Some patriotic spirit, I may hope, sir.’

Mr. Austin shook his head.  ’We put different constructions upon patriotism.’

‘Besides—­fiddle! nonsense!’ exclaimed Tuckham in the mildest interjections he could summon for a vent in society to his offended common sense; ’the better your men the worse your mark.  You’re not dealing with an intelligent people.’

‘There’s the old charge against the people.’

’But they’re not.  You can madden, you can’t elevate them by writing and writing.  Defend us from the uneducated English!  The common English are doltish; except in the North, where you won’t do much with them.  Compare them with the Yankees for shrewdness, the Spaniards for sobriety, the French for ingenuity, the Germans for enlightenment, the Italians in the Arts; yes, the Russians for good-humour and obedience—­where are they?  They’re only worth something when they’re led.  They fight well; there’s good stuff in them.’

‘I’ve heard all that before,’ returned Beauchamp, unruffled.  ’You don’t know them.  I mean to educate them by giving them an interest in their country.  At present they have next to none.  Our governing class is decidedly unintelligent, in my opinion brutish, for it’s indifferent.  My paper shall render your traders justice for what they do, and justice for what they don’t do.’

’My traders, as you call them, are the soundest foundation for a civilized state that the world has yet seen.’

‘What is your paper to be called?’ said Cecilia.

‘The dawn,’ Beauchamp answered.

She blushed fiery red, and turned the leaves of a portfolio of drawings.

‘The dawn!’ ejaculated Tuckham.  ’The grey-eyed, or the red?  Extraordinary name for a paper, upon my word!’

’A paper that doesn’t devote half its columns to the vices of the rich—­to money-getting, spending and betting—­will be an extraordinary paper.’

’I have it before me now!—­two doses of flattery to one of the whip.  No, no; you haven’t hit the disease.  We want union, not division.  Turn your mind to being a moralist, instead of a politician.’

‘The distinction shouldn’t exist!’

‘Only it does!’

Mrs. Grancey Lespel’s entrance diverted their dialogue from a theme wearisome to Cecilia, for Beauchamp shone but darkly in it, and Mr. Austin did not join in it.  Mrs. Grancey touched Beauchamp’s fingers.  ‘Still political?’ she said.  ’You have been seen about London with a French officer in uniform.’

‘It was M. le comte de Croisnel, a very old friend and comrade of mine,’ Beauchamp replied.

’Why do those Frenchmen everlastingly wear their uniforms?—­tell me!  Don’t you think it detestable style?’

‘He came over in a hurry.’

’Now, don’t be huffed.  I know you, for defending your friends, Captain Beauchamp!  Did he not come over with ladies?’