“You should come back to America with me,” I said. “And when you had rested awhile at Carvel Hall, I would ride with you through the length of the provinces from Massachusetts to North Carolina. You will see little besides hard-working, self-respecting Englishmen, loyal to a king who deserves loyalty as little as Louis of France. But with their eyes open, and despite the course he has taken. They are men whose measure of resolution is not guessed at.” He was silent again until we had got into Piccadilly and opposite his lodgings. “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. “What a pair of cubs it is,” said he; “I wish to God I was young again. I hear you astonished the world again last night, Charles.” We left him being assisted into his residence by a sleepy footman, paid our toll at Hyde Park Corner, and rolled onward toward Kensington, Fox laughing as we passed the empty park at the thought of what had so lately occurred there. After the close night of St. Stephen's, nature seemed doubly beautiful. The sun slanted over the water in the gardens in bars of green and gold. The bright new leaves were on the trees, and the morning dew had brought with it the smell of the living earth. We passed the stream of market wagons lumbering along, pulled by sturdy, patient farm-horses, driven by smocked countrymen, who touched their caps to the fine gentlemen of the court end of town; who shook their heads and exchanged deep tones over the whims of quality, unaccountable as the weather. But one big-chested fellow arrested his salute, a scowl came over his face, and he shouted back to the wagoner whose horses were munching his hay: “Hi, Jeems, keep down yere hands. Mr. Fox is noo friend of we.” This brought a hard smile on Mr. Fox's face. “I believe, Richard,” he said, “I have become more detested than any man in Parliament.” “And justly,” I replied; “for you have fought all that is good in you.” “I was mobbed once, in Parliament Street. I thought they would kill me. Have you ever been mobbed, Richard?” he asked indifferently. “Never, I thank Heaven,” I answered fervently.