He spoke in his usual reckless, good-humoured tone. Despite the warning, Florian perceived that the subject was neither dreaded nor discouraged by his host. He proceeded, therefore, to feel his ground cautiously, but with confidence. “Your English Government,” said he, “is doubtless on the watch, and with good reason. In the Trades, I remember, we used to say that ‘The Bashful Maid’ might be left to steer herself but when we got among the squalls of the Caribbean Sea, we kept a pretty sharp look-out, as you know, to shorten sail at a moment’s warning. Your ship up there in London is not making very good weather of it even now, and the breeze is only springing up to-day that will freshen to a gale to-morrow. At least, so we think over the water. Perhaps we are misinformed.” Sir George raised his eyebrows, and pondered. He had guessed as much for some time. Though with so many new interests, he had busied himself of late but little with politics, yet it was not in his nature to be entirely unobservant of public affairs. He had seen plenty of clouds on the horizon, and knew they portended storms; but the old habits of military caution had not deserted him, and he answered, carelessly— “That depends on what you think, you know. These Jesuits—pardon me, comrade, I cannot help addressing you as a Musketeer—these Jesuits sometimes know a great deal more than their prayers, but rather than prove mistaken, they will themselves create the complications they claim to have discovered. Frankly, you may speak out here. Our oak panels have no ears, and my servants are most of them deaf, and all faithful. What is the last infallible scheme at St. Omer? How many priests are stirring hard at the broth? How many marshals of France are longing to scald their mouths? Who is blowing the fire up, to keep it all hot and insure the caldron’s bubbling over at the right moment?” Florian laughed. “Greater names than you think for,” he replied; “fewer priests, more marshals. Peers of France to light the fire, and a prince of the blood to take the cover off. Oh! trust me this is no _soupe maigre_. The stock is rich, the liquid savoury, and many a tempting morsel lies floating here and there for those who are not afraid of a dash with the flesh-hook, and will take their chance of burnt fingers in the process.” “That is all very well for people who are hungry,” answered Sir George; “but when a man has dined, you can no longer tempt with a _ragoût_. The desire of a full man is to sit still and digest his food.” “Ambition has never dined,” argued the other; “ambition is always hungry and has the digestion of an ostrich. Like that insatiable bird, it can swallow an earl’s patent, parchment, ribbons, seals, and all, thankfully and at a gulp!” The baronet considered, took a draught of claret, and spoke out.