“Ah! Yes. A man of experience. But who are you for, really, in your heart?”
Mrs. Gould leaned over to the children. Linda had brought out a glass of water on a tray, with extreme care; Giselle presented her with a bunch of flowers gathered hastily.
“For the people,” declared old Viola, sternly.
“We are all for the people—in the end.”
“Yes,” muttered old Viola, savagely. “And meantime they fight for you. Blind. Esclavos!”
At that moment young Scarfe of the railway staff emerged from the door of the part reserved for the Signori Inglesi. He had come down to headquarters from somewhere up the line on a light engine, and had had just time to get a bath and change his clothes. He was a nice boy, and Mrs. Gould welcomed him.
“It’s a delightful surprise to see you, Mrs. Gould. I’ve just come down. Usual luck. Missed everything, of course. This show is just over, and I hear there has been a great dance at Don Juste Lopez’s last night. Is it true?”
“The young patricians,” Decoud began suddenly in his precise English, “have indeed been dancing before they started off to the war with the Great Pompey.”
Young Scarfe stared, astounded. “You haven’t met before,” Mrs. Gould intervened. “Mr. Decoud—Mr. Scarfe.”
“Ah! But we are not going to Pharsalia,” protested Don Jose, with nervous haste, also in English. “You should not jest like this, Martin.”