“No.  But I was wondering why you have devoted your talents to the devil,” I said, amazed at my boldness.

He glanced at me, and half laughed again.

“You are cursed frank,” said he; “damned frank.”

“But you invited it.”

“Yes,” he replied, “so I did.  Give me a man who is honest.  Fill up again,” said he; “and spit out all you would like to say, Richard.”

“Then,” said I, “why do you waste your time and your breath in defending a crew of political brigands and placemen, and a king who knows not the meaning of the word gratitude, and who has no use for a man of ability?  You have honoured me with your friendship, Charles Fox, and I may take the liberty to add that you seem to love power more than spoils.  You have originality.  You are honest enough to think and act upon your own impulses.  And pardon me if I say you have very little chance on that side of the house where you have put yourself.”

“You seem to have picked up a trifle since you came into England,” he said.  “A damned shrewd estimate, I’ll be sworn.  And for a colonial!  But, as for power,” he added a little doggedly, “I have it in plenty, and the kind I like.  The King and North hate and fear me already more than Wilkes.”

“And with more cause,” I replied warmly.  “His Majesty perhaps knows that you understand him better, and foresees the time when a man of your character will give him cause to fear indeed.”

He did not answer that, but called for a reckoning; and taking my arm again, we walked out past the sleeping houses.

“Have you ever thought much of the men we have in the colonies?” I asked.

“No,” he replied; “Chatham stands for ’em, and I hate Chatham on my father’s account.  That is reason enough for me.”

“You should come back to America with me,” I said.  “And when you had rested awhile at Carvel Hall, I would ride with you through the length of the provinces from Massachusetts to North Carolina.  You will see little besides hard-working, self-respecting Englishmen, loyal to a king who deserves loyalty as little as Louis of France.  But with their eyes open, and despite the course he has taken.  They are men whose measure of resolution is not guessed at.”

He was silent again until we had got into Piccadilly and opposite his lodgings.

“Are they all like you?” he demanded.

“Who?” said I. For I had forgotten my words.

“The Americans.”

“The greater part feel as I do.”

“I suppose you are for bed,” he remarked abruptly.

“The night is not yet begun,” I answered, repeating his favourite words, and pointing at the glint of the sun on the windows.

“What do you say to a drive behind those chestnuts of mine, for a breath of air?  I have just got my new cabriolet Selwyn ordered in Paris.”

Soon we were rattling over the stones in Piccadilly, wrapped in greatcoats, for the morning wind was cold.  We saw the Earl of March and Ruglen getting out of a chair before his house, opposite the Green Park, and he stopped swearing at the chairmen to wave at us.