"But the life and soul of it all was that M. Raoul," confessed Lady
Bateson's niece.
"By George!" echoed the schoolboy who had danced the "Soldier's Joy"
with Dorothea, "I wouldn'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.
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