"Would be, if he could keep himself straight," said the American.
"And where is the Tarpeian rock of friend Rossi's politics?"
The American slapped his glossy boot with his whip, lowered his voice, and said, "There!"
"Donna Roma?"
"A fortnight ago you heard his speech on the liveries of scarlet and gold, and look! He's under them himself already."
"You think there is no other inference?"
The American shook his head. "Always the way with these leaders of revolution. It's Samson's strength with Samson's weakness in every mother's son of them."
"Good-morning, General Potter!" said a cheerful voice from the carriage in front.
It was Roma herself. She sat by the side of the little Princess, with David Rossi on the seat before them. Her eyes were bright, there was a glow in her cheeks, and she looked lovelier than ever in her close-fitting riding-habit.
At the meeting-place there was a vast crowd of on-lookers, chiefly foreigners, in cabs and carriages and four-in-hand coaches from the principal hotels. The Master of the Hunt was ready, with his impatient hounds at his feet, and around him was a brilliant scene. Officers in blue, huntsmen in red, ladies in black, jockeys in jackets, a sea of feathers and flowers and sunshades, with the neighing of the horses and yapping of the dogs, the vast undulating country, the smell of earth and herbs, and the morning sunlight over all.