"The Prince, I believe, admires them."
"Yes, so it is said. But he wears them with more discretion. Did you happen to notice a gentleman who sat on our host's left hand at supper!"
"A little under-sized fellow with black eyes and moustachios?"
"Monsieur Marcel Trouet, accredited agent of the French Republic."
"Of the French Republic! You mean that Morice Conyers——
"Is in sympathy with the glorious Revolution across the Channel," replied Mr. Barton, taking a pinch of snuff with great deliberation. "You may have heard of the London Corresponding Society, Mr. Berrington?"
"Since my grandfather's death I have remained in Surrey. I fear the news of the towns has not sufficiently interested me."
"Ah! You think it might interest you now?"
"I am convinced of it."
"A secret society is scarcely a concern for men of honour to interest themselves in," went on Mr. Barton calmly. "Yet it appears that many calling themselves such have joined these absurd, and, to my way of thinking, pernicious bodies of sympathisers with a Revolution which should have for its motto 'Murder, plunder, and rapine' instead of 'Liberty, equality, and fraternity.' Yet, when the Society of the Friends of the People numbers such names as Grey, Sheridan, Erskine, and even Lord John Russell on its lists, small wonder that more virulent types of seditionary bands, such as this London Corresponding Society, should spring up."