uldn't have believed it of a Frenchy."

For some reason Dorothea was not too well pleased.

"But I do not see M. Raoul."

"Oh, he's down by the bridge, helping the relief party. One would guess
him worn out. He ran from lodging to lodging, turning the occupants out
of their beds and routing about for fresh linen. They say he even
carried old Mrs. Kekewich pick-a-back through the snow."

"And tucked her in bed," added the schoolboy. "And then he came back,
wet almost to the waist, and danced."

He looked roguishly at Lady Bateson's niece, and the pair exploded in
laughter.

They ran off as General Rochambeau, jaded and unshaven, approached and
saluted Dorothea.

"Until Miss Westcote appeared, we held our own against the face of day.
Now, alas, the conspiracy can no longer be kept up."

"You had no compliment for me last night, General."

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle." He lowered his voice and spoke earnestly.
"I have a genuine one for you to-day--I compliment your heart. M. Raoul
has told me of your interest in our poor compatriots, and what you
intend--"

"I fear I can do little," Dorothea interrupted, mindful of her late
encounter and (as she believed) defeat. "By all accounts, M. Raoul
appears to have made himself agreeable to all," she added.

The old gentleman chuckled and took snuff.

"He loves an audience. At about four in the morning, when all the
elders were in bed--(pardon me, Mademoiselle, if I claim to reckon
myself among _les jeunes_; my poor back tells me at what cost)--at
about four in the morning the young lady who has just left you spoke
of a new dance she had seen performed this season at Bath. Well, it
appears that M. Raoul had also seen it a--valtz they called it, or
some such name. Whereupon nothing would do but they must dance it
together. Such a dance, Mademoiselle! Roll, roll--round and round--
roll, roll--but _perpendicularly_, you understand. By-and-by the
others began to copy them, and someone asked M. Raoul where he had
found this accomplishment. 'Oh, in my travels,' says he, and points
to one of the panels; and there, if you will believe me, the fellow
had actually painted himself as Perseus in the Garden of the
Hesperides."

Poor Dorothea glanced towards the panel.

"Ah, you remember it! But he must have painted in the face after
showing it to us the other day, or I should have recognised it at the
time. You must come and see it; really an excellent portrait!"

He led her to