not
the first Englishman who has said so. Proud of one's country, and all
that sort of thing: plucky, strong, master race of the world. I know it.
But I have seen bitter life on that side"--pointing to the faint white
line of Dover--"and I have enjoyed myself immensely on that"--pointing
to the growing height of Cape Grisnez.

I thought, as he spoke, that he must be an ungrateful fellow to say one
word against the country where he had found the sweet little lady whose
head was then pillowed upon his rough coat. I understood him afterwards.
He started a fresh conversation, after having made a tender survey of
the wraps and conveniences of Mrs. Daker, who followed him with the deep
eyes as he returned to my side with his open cigar-case, to offer me a
cheroot.

"Do you know anything of Amiens?" he said. "Is it a large place--busy,
thriving?"

I gave him my impression--a ten-year old one.

"Not a place a man could lose himself in, evidently," he joked; "and
they've been mowed down rather smartly by the cholera since you were
there."

I could not quite like the tone of this; and yet what tenderness was in
the man when he turned to his young wife! "St. Omer, Abbeville,
Montreuil, and the rest of the places on the line, are dreary holes, I
happen to know. You have been to Chantilly, of course?"

[Illustration: A PIC-NIC AT ENGHIEN]

I had lost a round sum of money in that delightful place, where our
ambassador was wont to refresh himself after his diplomatic labours and
ceremonials.

"I know the place," Daker went on; "I know Chantilly well. It wakes up a
curious dream of the long ago in my mind."

"And Enghien?"

"_Comme ma poche._" Daker knew his Enghien well--and Enghien was
profoundly acquainted with Daker. Daker appeared to be a man not yet
over his thirtieth year. He was fair, full-blooded, with a bright grey
eye, a lithe shapely build, and distinguished in air and movement
withal. There were no marks upon his face; his eyes were frank and
direct; his speech was firm and of a cheery ring; and emotions seemed to
come and go in him as in an unused nature. Yet his conversation, free
as it was, and wholly unembarrassed, cast out frequent hints at a
copious history and an eventful one, in which he had acted a part. I
concluded he was no common man, and that, until now, the world had not
treated him over well; albeit he had just received ample compensation
for the past in the girlish wife who had crept to his si