and how young Lord Stavordale, on a wager, tilted the candles and set fire to the drawing-room at Lady Julia’s drum, the day before.  Mr. Price told of the rage Topham Beauclerk had got Dr. Johnson into, by setting down a mark for each oyster the sage had eaten, and showing him the count.  But Mr. Fox, who was the soul of the club, had the best array of any.  He related how he had gone post from Paris to Lyons, to order, among other things, an embroidered canary waistcoat for George Selwyn from Jabot. “’ Et quel dessin, monsieur?’ ’Beetles and frogs, in green.’  ‘Escargots! grenouilles!’ he cries, with a shriek; ’Et pour Monsieur Selwyn!  Monsieur Fox badine!’ It came yesterday, by Crawford, and I sent it to Chesterfield Street in time for George to wear to the Duchess’s.  He has been twice to Piccadilly after me, and twice here, and swears he will have my heart.  And I believe he is now gone to Matson in a funk.”

After that they fell upon politics.  I knew that Mr. Fox was already near the head of the King’s party, and that he had just received a substantial reward at his Majesty’s hands; and I went not far to guess that every one of these easy-going, devil-may-care macaronies was a follower or sympathizer with Lord North’s policy.  But what I heard was a revelation indeed.  I have dignified it by calling it politics.  All was frankness here amongst friends.  There was no attempt made to gloss over ugly transactions with a veneer of morality.  For this much I honoured them.  But irresistibly there came into my mind the grand and simple characters of our own public men in America, and it made me shudder to think that, while they strove honestly for our rights, this was the type which opposed them.  Motives of personal spite and of personal gain were laid bare, and even the barter and sale of offices of trust took place before my very eyes.  I was silent, though my tongue burned me, until one of the gentlemen, thinking me neglected, said: 

“What a-deuce is to be done with those unruly countrymen of yours, Mr. Carvel?  Are they likely to be pacified now that we have taken off all except the tea?  You who are of our party must lead a sorry life among them.  Tell me, do they really mean to go as far as rebellion?”

The blood rushed to my face.

“It is not a question of tea, sir,” I answered hotly; “nor yet of tuppence.  It is a question of principle, which means more to Englishmen than life itself.  And we are Englishmen.”

I believe I spoke louder than I intended, for a silence followed my words.  Fox glanced at Comyn, who of all of them at the table was not smiling, and said: 

“I thought you came of a loyalist family, Mr. Carvel.”

“King George has no more loyal servants than the Americans, Mr. Fox, be they Tory or Whig.  And he has but to read our petitions to discover it,” I said.

I spoke calmly, but my heart was thumping with excitement and resentment.  The apprehension of the untried is apt to be sharp at such moments, and I looked for them to turn their backs upon me for an impertinent provincial.  Indeed, I think they would have, all save Comyn, had it not been for Fox himself.  He lighted a pipe, smiled, and began easily, quite dispassionately, to address me.