“Then, and only then, shall the nation, purified, reborn, rise and live, and build again, setting a beacon of civilized freedom high as the beacon we Americans are raising,... slowly yet surely raising, to the glory of God, Scarlett—to the glory of God. No other dedication can be justified in this world.”
XIX
TRÉCOURT GARDEN
About nine o’clock we were summoned by a Breton maid to the pretty breakfast-room below, and I was ashamed to go with my shabby clothes, bandaged head, and face the color of clay.
The young countess was not present; Sylvia Elven offered us a supercilious welcome to a breakfast the counterpart of which I had not seen in years—one of those American breakfasts which even we, since the Paris Exposition, are beginning to discard for the simpler French breakfast of coffee and rolls.
“This is all in your honor,” observed Sylvia, turning up her nose at the array of poached eggs, fragrant sausages, crisp potatoes, piles of buttered toast, muffins, marmalade, and fruit.
“It was very kind of you to think of it,” said Speed.
“It is Madame de Vassart’s idea, not mine,” she observed, looking across the table at me. “Will the gentleman with nine lives have coffee or chocolate?”