"To tell you the truth, Mademoiselle, I find a hand at picquet with
the Admiral less fatiguing for two old gentlemen than these public
gaieties."
"In other words, you are nursing him. They tell me he has never been
well since that night of the snowstorm."
"Your informants may now add that he is better; these few Spring days
have done wonders for his rheumatism, and, indeed, he is dressed and
abroad this morning."
"Which explains why you are willing to stop and chat with me, instead
of hurrying off to the Post Office to ask for his letter--that letter
which never comes."
"So M. Raoul has been telling you all about us?"
Dorothea blushed.
"He happened to speak of it, at one of my working parties--"
"He has a fine gift for the pathetic, that young man; oh, yes, and a
pretty humour too! I can fancy what he makes of us--poor old Damon
and Pythias--while he holds the skeins; with a smile for poor old
Pythias' pigtail, and a tremor of the voice for the Emperor's
_tabatiere_, and a tear, no doubt, for the letter which never comes.
M. Raoul is great with an audience."
"You do him injustice, General. An audience of half-a-dozen old women!"
General Rochambeau had an answer to this on his tongue, but repressed
it.
"Ah, here comes the Admiral!" he cried, as the gaunt old man came
shuffling down the street towards them, with his stoop, his cross-
grained features drawn awry with twinges of rheumatism, his hands
crossed above his tall cane.
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