his lead was not followed, devoted himself to hospitality.

"We have venison, beaver tail, quail, good light bread and some thin
red wine," he said. "You Americans or English--which shall I call you?"

"Either," replied Robert, "because we are both."

"Then English it shall be for the present, because you are under that
flag. I was going to say that you are somewhat hostile to wine, which we
French love, and which we know how to drink in moderation. In some
respects we are a people of more restraint than you are. The slow, cold
English mind starts with an effort, but when it is started it is stopped
with equal difficulty. You either do too little or too much. You lack
the logic and precision of the Frenchman."

Robert smiled and replied lightly. Having avoided controversy upon one
point, he was of no mind to enter it upon another, and de Courcelles,
not pressing a third attack, entered with Jumonville upon his duties as
host. Both were graceful, easy, assured, and they fulfilled Robert's
conception of French officers, as men of the world who knew courts and
manners. It was a time when courts were more important than they are
today, and they were recognized universally as the chief fountains from
which flowed honor and advancement.

Robert did not like them as well as St. Luc, but he found a certain
charm in their company. They could talk of things that interested him,
and they exerted themselves, telling indirectly of the glories of Quebec
and alluding now and then to the greater splendors of Paris and
Versailles. It was a time when the French monarchy loomed as the
greatest power in the world. The hollowness and decay of the House of