William walked up and down the hearth. He still wore his roquelaure, and clasped his hands behind him under the full skirts.
“Whatever he may say he will never forgive that,” repeated M. Bentinck.
“It is I who will never forgive,” said William, “that he should so have mistaken how I rate myself.”
“Well, and there will be war?” flashed the other, leaning forward.
“This spring, I think.… The pretexts are utterly wanton—you heard of the Merlin incident?”
“Some account, yes.”
“And my uncle Charles has sent one Downing over, an insupportable swashbuckler. Temple was a good fellow, and friendly, therefore he was removed.”
“It will be England too, you think?”
“Yes; but I have hopes of my uncle Charles.”
Then William turned to face his companion.