“Are they all like you?” he demanded.
“Who?” said I. For I had forgotten my words.
“The Americans.”
“The greater part feel as I do.”
“I suppose you are for bed,” he remarked abruptly.
“The night is not yet begun,” I answered, repeating his favourite words, and pointing at the glint of the sun on the windows.
“What do you say to a drive behind those chestnuts of mine, for a breath of air? I have just got my new cabriolet Selwyn ordered in Paris.”
Soon we were rattling over the stones in Piccadilly, wrapped in greatcoats, for the morning wind was cold. We saw the Earl of March and Ruglen getting out of a chair before his house, opposite the Green Park, and he stopped swearing at the chairmen to wave at us.
“Hello, March!” Mr. Fox said affably, “you're drunk.”
His Lordship smiled, bowed graciously if unsteadily to me, and did not appear to resent the pleasantry. Then he sighed.