“Yes, but even there we don’t escape the abuse of our infamous newspapers for exercising a man’s right to live where he chooses.  And there is no country in Europe—­except Turkey, or Spain—­that isn’t a better home for an honest man than the United States.”

The Ohioan had once before cleared his throat as if he were going to speak.  Now, he leaned far enough forward to catch Triscoe’s eye, and said, slowly and distinctly:  “I don’t know just what reason you have to feel as you do about the country.  I feel differently about it myself—­perhaps because I fought for it.”

At first, the others were glad of this arrogance; it even seemed an answer; but Burnamy saw Miss Triscoe’s cheek, flush, and then he doubted its validity.

Triscoe nervously crushed a biscuit in his hand, as if to expend a violent impulse upon it.  He said, coldly, “I was speaking from that stand-point.”

The Ohioan shrank back in his seat, and March felt sorry for him, though he had put himself in the wrong.  His old hand trembled beside his plate, and his head shook, while his lips formed silent words; and his shy wife was sharing his pain and shame.

Kenby began to talk about the stop which the Norumbia was to make at Cherbourg, and about what hour the next day they should all be in Cuxhaven.  Miss Triscoe said they had never come on the Hanseatic Line before, and asked several questions.  Her father did not speak again, and after a little while he rose without waiting for her to make the move from table; he had punctiliously deferred to her hitherto.  Eltwin rose at the same time, and March feared that he might be going to provoke another defeat, in some way.

Eltwin lifted his voice, and said, trying to catch Triscoe’s eye, “I think I ought to beg your pardon, sir.  I do beg your pardon.”

March perceived that Eltwin wished to make the offer of his reparation as distinct as his aggression had been; and now he quaked for Triscoe, whose daughter he saw glance apprehensively at her father as she swayed aside to let the two men come together.

“That is all right, Colonel—­”

“Major,” Eltwin conscientiously interposed.

“Major,” Triscoe bowed; and he put out his hand and grasped the hand which had been tremulously rising toward him.  “There can’t be any doubt of what we did, no matter what we’ve got.”

“No, no!” said the other, eagerly.  “That was what I meant, sir.  I don’t think as you do; but I believe that a man who helped to save the country has a right to think what he pleases about it.”

Triscoe said, “That is all right, my dear sir.  May I ask your regiment?”

The Marches let the old fellows walk away together, followed by the wife of the one and the daughter of the other.  They saw the young girl making some graceful overtures of speech to the elder woman as they went.

“That was rather fine, my dear,” said Mrs. March.