Lee and Cecil laughed simultaneously. “Have you ever told the story of my attempt to lick the United States?” asked Cecil. “That defeat rankled for years.”
“Never!”
Cecil told the story very well. It was evident that his bitterness had passed, and he concluded:
“The odd part of it all is, that although you Americans beat us, it is you who are bitter, and not ourselves. It was the same way with those boys. They gave me sour disapproving glances every time they met me until I left. On the other hand, I nearly thrashed the life out of a man in Montana, and I never made such an enthusiastic friend.”
“Oh, we have to be bullied,” said Randolph frankly. “We love to brag and boast and swagger. You see we are such an extraordinary nation that we can’t help being a little cocky, and the only man we really respect is the one who lays us on our back with a black eye and a nose out of joint. We always get up—nothing can keep an American on his back—but we go to our graves with a wondering admiration of the muscle, mental or physical, that floored us.”
“That is very interesting,” said Cecil thoughtfully, “very.” He added in a moment: “I fancy the bitterness would have died out by this time, in spite of our failure to keep the finest of our colonies, but for our diplomacy, which is a trifle too subtle and sinuous to please the rest of the world. I don’t know that the United States stands alone in her antagonism.” And he laughed.
Randolph knew less about English diplomacy than he did about the past history of American politics, but he made a rapid calculation: if he led Cecil on, the Englishman, with his exact and profound knowledge, would distinguish himself and win the grateful admiration of the woman. On the other hand, unless he kept him talking, he should be called upon for information which he had always considered superfluous in an American who had but one short life in which to “get there,” and which was of no particular interest to himself; he had cut his college course down to one year in order to make the most of his youthful energies, and to run no risk of losing Lee Tarleton. Moreover, if he drew his guest out, he should not only be doing his duty as a host, but Lee’s approval for himself would be as large as her admiration of his rival. There was more than a chance, clever as she was, that she would give him full credit for generosity and for the courtesy of his fathers. He made up his mind in an instant, threw out an observation of epigrammatic vagueness on the diplomacy of England, and in ten minutes had Cecil monopolising the conversation, under the impression that he was forced into an argument.
Lee forgot her dinner, and listened intensely. She had heard men talk more brilliantly—for Cecil had cultivated none of the graces of oratory, and of the epigram he appeared to have a healthy scorn—but she had never heard any one talk who knew so well what he was talking about, and who yet suggested that he was merely skimming up the spray of a subject whose deeps were trite to him straight down to its skeletons and flora. His knowledge of English diplomacy suggested an equally minute knowledge of the diplomatic history of every country into which England had run her horns. He talked without priggishness, rather as if he were used to discussing the subject with men who were as well grounded as himself.
As they left the dining-room, Lee lingered behind a moment with Randolph.
“It was awfully nice of you,” she said. “You like to do the talking yourself, and England has never interested you much.”