"A trifling mishap,"—modestly.
"Eh, you do wrong. You may soon be at war with England, and having resigned your commission, you would lose all you had waited these years for."
Warburton smiled. "We shall not go to war with England."
"This Army of yours is small."
"Well, yes; but made of pretty good material—fighting machines with brains."
"Ha!" The count laughed softly. "Bah! how I detest all these cars and ships! Will you believe me, I had rather my little chateau, my vineyard, and my wheat fields, than all the orders…. Eh, well, my country: there must be some magic in that phrase. Of all loves, that of country is the most lasting. Is that Balzac? I do not recall. Only once in a century do we find a man who is willing to betray his country, and even then he may have for his purpose neither hate, revenge, nor love of power." A peculiar gravity sat on his mobile face, caused, perhaps, by some disagreeable inward thought.
"How long shall you be in Washington?" asked Warburton.
The count shrugged. "Who can say?"
"I go to Washington myself within a few days."
"Till we meet again, then, Monsieur."