“No,” she responded quickly, “they would perhaps prefer a French fleet in the Thames.”
“Some of ’em would,” said Savile sullenly.
“No, sir, you are wrong,” declared Devonshire, “no Englishman would—not even a Jacobite—when it came to that. You remember how the southern counties rose to repulse Tourville’s squadron in ’90?”
“You are in the right, my lord; no true Briton has ever thought of seeing his country under the heel of Louis,” said Clancarty, suddenly taking part in the conversation.
“Some traitors—who are not Englishmen—would, Mr. Trevor,” sneered Savile, with an emphasis on the name.
The disguised earl shot a fierce glance at him and smiled dangerously.
“Little dogs snarl when they dare not bite, my lord,” he said suavely.
“Since the famous peace, sir, all the renegades and cutpurses talk loud,” replied Savile, in an insolent undertone.
“Cowards always insult men in the presence of women,” retorted Clancarty smiling.
At this moment they were interrupted by a movement of the throng, some passing out, and my Lady Sunderland, having won her Chinese dragon from all competitors, bore down upon them flushed with triumph, and the chairs were called.