rats.  And we are foolish enough to be proud of it!  Why should we be?  Does the bull progress?  Can you civilize the gamecock?  Is there any future for the rat?  We cant even fight intelligently:  when we lose battles, it is because we have not sense enough to know when we are beaten.  At Waterloo, had we known when we were beaten, we should have retreated; tried another plan; and won the battle.  But no:  we were too pigheaded to admit that there is anything impossible to a Frenchman:  we were quite satisfied when our Marshals had six horses shot under them, and our stupid old grognards died fighting rather than surrender like reasonable beings.  Think of your great Wellington:  think of his inspiring words, when the lady asked him whether British soldiers ever ran away.  “All soldiers run away, madam,” he said; “but if there are supports for them to fall back on it does not matter.”  Think of your illustrious Nelson, always beaten on land, always victorious at sea, where his men could not run away.  You are not dazzled and misled by false ideals of patriotic enthusiasm:  your honest and sensible statesmen demand for England a two-power standard, even a three-power standard, frankly admitting that it is wise to fight three to one:  whilst we, fools and braggarts as we are, declare that every Frenchman is a host in himself, and that when one Frenchman attacks three Englishmen he is guilty of an act of cowardice comparable to that of the man who strikes a woman.  It is folly:  it is nonsense:  a Frenchman is not really stronger than a German, than an Italian, even than an Englishman.  Sir:  if all Frenchwomen were like your daughter—­if all Frenchmen had the good sense, the power of seeing things as they really are, the calm judgment, the open mind, the philosophic grasp, the foresight and true courage, which are so natural to you as an Englishman that you are hardly conscious of possessing them, France would become the greatest nation in the world.

MARGARET.  Three cheers for old England! [She shakes hands with him warmly].

BOBBY.  Hurra-a-ay!  And so say all of us.

Duvallet, having responded to Margaret’s handshake with enthusiasm, kisses Juggins on both cheeks, and sinks into his chair, wiping his perspiring brow.

GILBEY.  Well, this sort of talk is above me.  Can you make anything out of it, Knox?

KNOX.  The long and short of it seems to be that he cant lawfully marry my daughter, as he ought after going to prison with her.

DORA.  I’m ready to marry Bobby, if that will be any satisfaction.

GILBEY.  No you dont.  Not if I know it.

MRS KNOX.  He ought to, Mr Gilbey.

GILBEY.  Well, if thats your religion, Amelia Knox, I want no more of it.  Would you invite them to your house if he married her?

MRS KNOX.  He ought to marry her whether or no.

BOBBY.  I feel I ought to, Mrs Knox.