“Ah! If I were only in Paris! How I hate the English.”
“Sh!... Reflect! Madam Grantham is English” (with an upward glance of deviltry), “the Governor, my cousin, is English, I am English, Geoffrey is English, you are—”
“No, no! I am not. Not in the very least bone of me. That is why I find you so amusing. You cherish English blood, you boast loudly of your English connections, you cultivate English manners—which God knows thrive without much cultivation—! You emblazon your English coats of arms with their bastard French mottoes, on your carriage doors, your silver plate, your slaves—”
“One would think we branded them, to hear you,” interpolated the old lady, with amusement, “but go on—go on. Let us have the full extent of the indictment.”
“And where is Geoffrey now?” continued Geoffrey’s wife; “and where were the Granthams in 1719, in 1749, in 1775? Why, fighting the English for dear life.”
“That is more English than anything else,” retorted her cousin-in-law. “What would you have Geoffrey do? Stay at home?”
“By no means. I encouraged him to go. But then I thought he would take me with him since he was so absolute of victory.”
“Take you with him? On board a privateer?”
“There were other modes of transportation.”
“My dear child! He could not be willing to have you exposed to danger.”