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This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with

Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what

he would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long.

It was too much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a

refugee, and it was much too much the way of native British

orthodoxy, to talk of this terrible Revolution as if it were the

only harvest ever known under the skies that had not been

sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or omitted to be done,

that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched millions in

France, and of the misused and perverted resources that should

have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,

years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw.