And will probably lose twenty thousand before you have done.  And I shall say to him that you have dared to make bold rebel speeches to a Lord of the Admiralty and to some of the King’s supporters.  I shall tell your grandfather you are disgracing him.”

“Rebel speeches!” I cried.

“Yes, rebel speeches at Almack’s.  Who ever heard of such a thing!  No doubt I shall hear next of your going to a drawing-room and instructing his Majesty how to subdue the colonies.  And then, sir, you will be sent to the Tower, and I shan’t move a finger to get you out.”

“Who told you of this, Dolly?” I demanded.

“Mr. Fox, himself, for one.  He thought it so good,—­or so bad,—­that he took me aside last night at Lady Tankerville’s, asked me why I had let you out of Castle Yard, and told me I must manage to curb your tongue.  I replied that I had about as much influence with you as I have with Dr. Franklin.”

I laughed.

“I saw Fox lead you off,” I said.

“Oh, you did, did you!” she retorted.  “But you never once came near me yourself, save when I chanced to meet you in the hall, tho’ I was there a full three hours.”

“How could I!” I exclaimed.  “You were surrounded by prime ministers and ambassadors, and Heaven knows how many other great people.”

“When you wish to do anything, Richard, you usually find a way.”

“Nay,” I answered, despairing, “I can never explain anything to you, Dolly.  Your tongue is too quick for mine.”

“Why didn’t you go home with your captain?” she asked mockingly.

“Do you know why I stayed?”

“I suppose because you want to be a gay spark and taste of the pleasures of London.  That is, what you men are pleased to call pleasures.  I can think of no other season.”

“There is another,” I said desperately.

“Ah,” said Dolly.  And in her old aggravating way she got up and stood in the window, looking out over the park.  I rose and stood beside her, my very temples throbbing.

“We have no such springs at home,” she said.  “But oh, I wish I were at Wilmot House to-day!”

“There is another reason,” I repeated.  My voice sounded far away, like that of another.  I saw the colour come into her cheeks again, slowly.  The southwest wind, with a whiff of the channel salt in it, blew the curtains at our backs.

“You have a conscience, Richard,” she said gently, without turning.  “So few of us have.”

I was surprised.  Nor did I know what to make of that there were so many meanings.

“You are wild,” she continued, “and impulsive, as they say your father was.  But he was a man I should have honoured.  He stood firm beside his friends.  He made his enemies fear him.  All strong men must have enemies, I suppose.  They must make them.”

I looked at her, troubled, puzzled, but burning at her praise of Captain Jack.

“Dolly,” I cried, “you are not well.  Why won’t you come back to Maryland?”