"M. Raoul!" Dorothea caught her breath on the name.
"And M. Raoul leapt into the chaise, then and there wrested the flag from him—the more easily no doubt because he expected nothing so little and holding it aloft, challenged him to mortal combat. Theatrically, and apart from the taste of it (I report only from hearsay), the coup must have been immensely successful. When I arrived, your brother was restoring peace, the young Briton holding out his hand—swearing he was sorry, begad! but how the deuce was he to have known ?—and M. Raoul saving the situation, and still demanding blood with a face as long as an Alexandrine:
"'Ce drapeau glorieux auquel, en sanglotant, Se prosternent affaises vos membres, veterans!'
"'Vary sorry, damitol, shake hands, beg your pardon.'"
The Vicomte forgot his languor, and burlesqued the scene with real talent.
Dorothea, however, was not amused.
"You say my brother is at 'The Dogs,' Monsieur? I think I will go to him."
"You must allow me, then, to escort you."
"Oh, the street is quite safe. Your countrymen will not suspect me of exulting over their misfortunes."
"Nevertheless—" he insisted, and walked beside her.