“She 's very like the Princesse de Raoule.”
“Taller, and younger.”
“And fifty times handsomer. What eyes! By Jove! I wish the drosky would never move on! She is regularly imprisoned there.”
“You are very ungallant, gentlemen, I must say,” said the young Count de Guilmard, the French secretary of legation, who, having finished his coffee and liquor, coolly arranged his curls beneath his hat before the glass, “very ungallant, indeed, not to offer an arm to an unprotected princess. We Frenchmen understand our devoirs differently.” And, so saying, he passed out into the street, while the rest pressed up closer to the window to observe his proceedings.
“Cleverly done, Guilmard!” cried one. “See how he affects to have protected her from the pole of that carriage.”
“She 'll not notice him.” “She will.” “She has.” “She has n't.” “She is moving his way!” “Not at all.”
“She 's speaking!” “There, I told you he 'd succeed.”
“But he hasn't, though.” Amid all these phrases, which rattled on more rapidly than we can write them, Onslow joined the party, one heavy venture on a single card having involved him in a tremendous loss.
“Is that a countrywoman of yours, Onslow?” asked a young Russian noble. “If so, the entente cordiale with France seems scarcely so secure as statesmen tell us.”
Onslow gave one glance through the window, and dashed into the street with a bound like the spring of a wild animal. He threw himself between Guilmard and Kate. The Frenchman lifted his cane, and the same instant he fell backwards upon the pavement, rather hurled than struck down by the strong arm of the young Guardsman. Before the lookers-on could hasten out, George had hailed a carriage, and, assisting Kate in, took his seat beside her, and drove off.