He walked along beside her with an air of fascinating frankness. He had found it serve with women. As for Nance, she was so near home that it did not seem worth while to question De Rothan's company.
"We saw the beacon burning."
"And you were very frightened, eh?"
"No, not very."
"You should have seen the country people! Frightened sheep! I fear that if the French had landed the English red-coats would have followed the women."
Nance had none of her father's political discontent. She had her British beliefs and convictions, and wore her patriotism in her bosom.
"English soldiers do not run away, Chevalier."
"Eh! Assuredly—I ask your pardon. One's own soldiers never run away; they are forced to retreat in the face of overwhelming numbers. We all know that."
The man puzzled her. Usually she could get clear impressions of people, but De Rothan's was a figure that flickered and changed. His vanity and his grand air were definite details, yet they seemed to her like clothes worn at a masked ball. De Rothan was a cynic and an adventurer, a mature and very flexible man of the world. Nothing was absolutely right or absolutely wrong to him. A certain intenseness made Nance incapable of understanding the multifarious selfishnesses that go to the making of such a man.
Anthony Durrell was walking the terrace when these two reached Stonehanger. De Rothan had said, "I give myself the pleasure of seeing your father." He was out of the saddle, and making a great business of offering to hand Nance up the steps.