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is too cautious of his reputation to take the risks that lead to great victories, see. But he will fight well enough to avoid a complete defeat and all its shame.” I smiled, a trifle bitterly, in remembrance. “In India, the rule was to risk everything, and to do so at once. To plunge inamongst the enemy and give him a Cawnpore dinner, before he could so much as give us a wink. It rarely failed, at least against the natives. But General McClellan doesn’t have that sort of spunk, sir. Forgive the comparison, but the general is like a boxer afraid to hit his opponent too hard, for fear of what he’ll get in return. But he will not lose, either, for he is too vain ever to surrender outright. I do not think him the man to bring us Richmond. May the Good Lord prove me wrong.”
    Mr. Adams gave a small, but distinctly ungentlemanly, snort. “I’m afraid I lack any military faculties. I can’t make any sense of that.”
    “War makes no sense,” I told him, “until it is written down for the history books. That is the first thing to know about it, sir.”
    He looked at me with something near ferocity. Not that he had grown angry or even impatient with me, see. Twas only that there was a devil in him, too, behind the solemn mask of high diplomacy. I would have followed him into battle sooner than I would have followed General George B. McClellan, I will tell you. But let that bide.
    “Well,” Mr. Adams said, in a tone that marked the ending of our meal and our interview, “we shall allow the general to fight his war, and we’ll fight ours. By the way, I would like you to accompany me later this afternoon, to visit Mr. Disraeli before he joins the evening session of Parliament. I want you to listen to what he has to say. The way you listened in the morgue today. Perhaps you’ll hear more substance in his words than I do.”
    “Mr. Disraeli is a political fellow, I believe?” His name had graced the pages of the newspapers now and again, even in America, but I would be ashamed to tell you how little I knew of him.
    “Perhaps the most political fellow who ever lived,” Mr. Adams said. “He leads the Tory opposition, along with the Earl of Derby. To whom he pretends to be subordinate.”
    “The Tories are hostile to the United States, are they not, sir?”
    This time, Mr. Adams’s smile was genuine, almost full. “Not as hostile as they are to Lord Palmerston and his government.” Then he mastered himself and straightened his mouth. “Do you have any clothing beyond your uniform, Major? I think we might be better served if you were dressed less conspicuously.”
    “I’m afraid I departed in haste, sir, and lacked the time to—”
    A gentle rap tested the door.
    “Yes?” Mr. Adams said, since we both thought it must be the waiter come to clear.
    The door swung wide and two female creatures stood before us, painted thick and dollied up bright as heathens.
    “As you gents is done with your dinner, would you fancy a pair of sweets?” With the speaker in the lead—a tiny, bird-boned thing got up in green—the women pushed their way into our chamber. Brazen as brass they were. “We’ll give you boys a treat like you won’t get back ’ome in Mayfair, and show you something what ain’t in the Exhibition.”
    Mr. Adams, after overcoming his astonishment, shot to his feet. Red-faced, he was, and his tone was not diplomatic.
    “Madame, how dare you suggest . . . the impertinence . . . Waiter!”
    The second creature, bountifully rounded and decked out in organdy satin that was not unstained, grasped her sister in misery by the shoulder.
    “Come on out, Lucy. Din’t I say to you, soon as them two come in through the front door, ’ow they wasn’t but two old spankers by the looks of them? Knickers down and whoops-a-daisy, that’s them sorts.”
    The tiny creature elevated her nose and turned away as if she were a queen. “I know those likes meself, from Mrs. Marker’s, and won’t ’ave nothing to do