The Vicomte, with an air of amused contempt, was choosing a steak for his dinner, using his gold-ferruled walking-stick to direct the butcher how to cut it out, while his servant stood ready with a plate.
"To tell you the truth, Mademoiselle, I find a hand at picquet with the Admiral less fatiguing for two old gentlemen than these public gaieties." "In other words, you are nursing him.

They tell me he has never been well since that night of the snowstorm." "Your informants may now add that he is better; these few Spring days have done wonders for his rheumatism, and, indeed, he is dressed and abroad this morning." "Which explains why you are willing to stop and chat with me, instead of hurrying off to the Post Office to ask for his letter--that letter which never comes." "So M.Raoul has been telling you all about us ?" Dorothea blushed.
"He happened to speak of it, at one of my working parties--" "He has a fine gift for the pathetic, that young man; oh, yes, and a pretty humour too! I can fancy what he makes of us--poor old Damon and Pythias--while he holds the skeins; with a smile for poor old Pythias' pigtail, and a tremor of the voice for the Emperor's _tabatiere_, and a tear, no doubt, for the letter which never comes.
M.Raoul is great with an audience." "You do him injustice, General.

An audience of half-a-dozen old women!" General Rochambeau had an answer to this on his tongue, but repressed it.
"Ah, here comes the Admiral!" he cried, as the gaunt old man came shuffling down the street towards them, with his stoop, his cross- grained features drawn awry with twinges of rheumatism, his hands crossed above his tall cane.

All Axcester laughed at his long blue surtout, his pigtail and little round hat.

But Dorothea always found him formidable, and wanted to run away.