"That is the side of them which, in my somewhat responsible position,
I endeavour to humour. You see the result." He swept his hand towards
the painted panels. "One thing I must say, in justice to my charges,
I find them docile."

Dorothea had confidence in her brother's tact and his unerring eye for
his audience. Yet she looked about her nervously, to make sure that of
the few prisoners selected for invitation to the ball, none was within
earshot. The Vicomte de Tocqueville, a stoical young patrician, had
chosen a partner for the next dance, and was leading her out with that
air of vacuity with which he revenged himself upon the passing hour of
misfortune. "Go on," it seemed to say, "but permit me to remind you
that, so far as I am concerned, you do not exist." Old General
Rochambeau and old Rear-Admiral de Wailly-Duchemin, in worn but
carefully-brushed regimentals, patrolled the far end of the room
arm-in-arm. The Admiral seemed in an ill humour; and this was nothing
new, he grumbled at everything. But the General's demeanour, as he
trotted up and down beside his friend (doubtless doing his best to
pacify him), betrayed an unwonted agitation. It occurred to Dorothea
that he had not yet greeted her and paid his usual compliment.

"Miss Westcote is not dancing tonight?"

The voice was at her elbow, and she looked up with a start--to meet
the gaze of M. Raoul.

"Excuse me"--she wished to explain why she had been startled--"I did
not expect--"