“Then I may help you. It must be very absorbing, for you did not hear my knock at your door.” Now, could he trust her? The widow of a British officer killed nobly fighting for his country in India, was a person to be relied on for active and burning sympathy in a matter that touched the country’s honour. She was a woman, and a woman of spirit. Men had not pleased him of late. Something might be hoped from a woman. He stated his occupation, saying that if she would assist him in his French she would oblige him; the letter must be written and must go. This was uttered so positively that she bowed her head, amused by the funny semi-tone of defiance to the person to whom he confided the secret. She had humour, and was ravished by his English boyishness, with the novel blush of the heroical-nonsensical in it. Mrs. Culling promised him demurely that she would listen, objecting nothing to his plan, only to his French. “Messieurs de la Garde Française!” he commenced. Her criticism followed swiftly. “I think you are writing to the Garde Impériale.” He admitted his error, and thanked her warmly. “Messieurs de la Garde Impériale!” “Does not that,” she said, “include the non-commissioned officers, the privates, and the cooks, of all the regiments?” He could scarcely think that, but thought it provoking the French had no distinctive working title corresponding to gentlemen, and suggested “Messieurs les Officiers”: which might, Mrs. Culling assured him, comprise the barbers. He frowned, and she prescribed his writing, “Messieurs les Colonels de la Garde Impériale.” This he set down. The point was that a stand must be made against the flood of sarcasms and bullyings to which the country was exposed in increasing degrees, under a belief that we would fight neither in the mass nor individually. Possibly, if it became known that the colonels refused to meet a midshipman, the gentlemen of our Household troops would advance a step. Mrs. Culling’s adroit efforts to weary him out of his project were unsuccessful. He was too much on fire to know the taste of absurdity. Nevil repeated what he had written in French, and next the English of what he intended to say. The lady conscientiously did her utmost to reconcile the two languages. She softened his downrightness, passed with approval his compliments to France and the ancient high reputation of her army, and, seeing that a loophole was left for them to apologize, asked how many French colonels he wanted to fight. “I do not _want_, ma’am,” said Nevil.