Hamilton was dressed with his usual exquisite care, his
cuffs carefully leaded. But his appearance interested him little to-day.
For the moment, however, he forgot his private annoyance in the portent
on every side of him. Few of the seekers after gifts had entered the
shops. They blocked the pavements, even the street, talking excitedly of
the news of the day before. Fully half the throng sported the
tri-coloured cockade, the air hissed with "Citizen," "Citess," or rang
with a volley of "Ca ira! Ca ira!"
Hamilton set his teeth. "It _is_ the next nightmare," he thought. "The
Cabinet is quiet at present--Jefferson, mortified and beaten, is coaxing
back his courage for a final spring. When the time comes to determine
our attitude there will be Hell, nothing less." But his nostrils
quivered. He might rebel at poisoned arrows, but he revelled in the
fight that involved the triumph of a policy.
His mind was abstracted, the blood was still in his brain as he entered
Mrs. Croix's drawing-room. For a moment he had a confused idea that he
had blundered into a shop.
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