This fell rather flat, for nobody present seemed to know what United Empire Loyalists were. So she explained that they were those loyal subjects of King George III, who at the time of the American Revolution, deserted their worldly goods and migrated to Canada, in order that they might keep the inestimable privilege of living under the British flag. Though she did not say so, it could be understood from her words that the descendants of these people formed a vigorous, splendid, but unassuming core of leadership—a kind of democratic aristocracy—in Canada.

In the high and charged atmosphere of the moment—the climate of feeling—this would have been acceptable enough, but Revelstoke fixed her with a sardonic eye.

“What’s so remarkable about that?” said he. “Why should they do otherwise than leave the country if they didn’t like the Revolution? Are you asking us to admire them simply because they were loyal? Surely that’s the least Britain could have expected of them. Honouring people for being loyal is like honouring them for being honest; it’s a confession of an essentially base and cynical attitude toward mankind. It’s either that or it’s just sentimental silliness.”

Perhaps Monica should have hit him on the head with her shoe. But she was, beneath the superficial part of her mind which was boasting and prattling, so conscious of the untruth of what she was saying, that she felt disproportionately rebuked. She felt that everybody at the table was disgusted with her, and ashamed for her, as a foolish little braggart. She felt that she had been sharply and contemptuously put in her place. Of course there was no such general feeling. Mrs Hopkin-Griffiths was thinking how distinguished Giles looked when he was nicely washed and had on his dress suit, and hardly heard what was said. The squire thought the boy was much too rough on the little Canadian; loyalty ought to be encouraged, or where would we all be? Ceinwen thought: well, there’s her reward for laying herself out to charm Master Giles, the dirty English pig (though as she thought this in Welsh the last term was not quite so stinging as it seems in translation). Only Ripon guessed at the truth.

The County Ball was held in Trallwm, in the Assembly Rooms, which was a grand term given to a largish public-hall-of-all-work; and the corridors and anterooms surrounding it, in the Town Hall. It was prettily hung with holly and Christmas decorations, and had been furnished for the occasion by a local dealer with some really handsome antiques, and so it was a pleasant setting for an occasion when most of the guests brought a genuine spirit of gaiety with them.

It was a mixed assemblage of county gentry, well-to-do farmers and townspeople, and it was ostensibly in aid of the hospital. The squire could well remember—and never ceased reminding everyone he met of the fact—the days when a velvet rope divided the dancing floor, and the county danced on one side, and the lesser folk on the other. But those days were gone, and everybody said, with varying degrees of sincerity, that they were glad of it. The Neuadd Goch party were disposed to enjoy themselves, except Giles, who hated the music but had not quite enough determination to stay at home.

Balancing the ballroom, at the other end of the main corridor of the Town Hall, was the Court Room, which had been arranged as a sitting-out room; it was splendidly suited to such a purpose, for it was a maze of fenced-in compartments, wells and cubby-holes which allowed sitting-out couples quite enough privacy, if they wanted it. It was here that the kindly Ripon led Monica, and as they could not, in the gloom, find anywhere else that was not taken by a seriously whispering couple, they climbed into the prisoner’s dock, which was high and surrounded by a fence of spikes—presumably to keep felons from leaping into court and menacing the learned counsel. They sat on the little bench inside it.

“Don’t take it so hard,” said Ripon, after a few moments of silence.

“Eh?”

“What Revelstoke said at dinner. You’ve been dragging your wings ever since. He’s a bastard; he likes to take it out of women. Look what he did to Ceinwen at Christmas.”

“But, Johnny, this was different.”

“Yes, I know it was.”

Monica began to weep. Ripon gave her his handkerchief, held her round the shoulders, said soothing and not very coherent things, and after a time restored her to some sort of order.

“It’s not the end of the world. You’ve just got to see it as it was. You’d been boasting, and he slapped you down. It was nasty of him, but that’s all it was.”

“I’d been making a perfect fool of myself. I’ve been doing it ever since I came here. You must all despise me.”

“No, no. I’ll be frank; you’ve been giving us quite a line about Canada and your people and all that, but anybody with half an ear could tell that you were only asking to be patted. It wasn’t even boasting. It was just putting a best foot forward. Nothing to be ashamed of. These people invite it, you know.”

“Welsh people, you mean.”

“All the people in these islands. They’re so self-satisfied. You have to hate them, or you have to try to pull yourself up even with them. I know all about it. When I’m at home I’m not terrifically American, but over here I have to act a part, or disappear. You were just trying not to disappear; and because you’re such a hell of a good singer it would easily have passed as the rather charming egotism of the artist, if dear Gilly hadn’t stuck his knife into you. You were just the tiniest bit silly; but he was intentionally brutal.”

“Do you mean that, Johnny, about having to act a part, and the people here being so strong in themselves, and that?”

“Of course I mean it.”

“It’s not just something you got out of a book?”

“What would be wrong with it if I did get it out of a book? As a matter of fact, it’s in lots of books. Have you read any Henry James?”

“No; did he write about that?”

“Sometimes. We’ve been living in a kind of Henry James climate for the past few days. The American getting the works from Europeans was some of his favourite themes. ‘This arrogant old Europe which so little befriends us’, he called it. But your mistake was that you didn’t act a part; you were trying to make yourself believe it, and that never works. That’s bad art.”

“Well, what should I do?”

“Why don’t you try passing as white? You know about the light-skinned Negroes in the States, who move North and live among whites as one of themselves? The only way to get on in peace with the people over here is to conceal as well as you can that you’re not one of themselves—pass as white. Minimize the differences; don’t call attention to them. This country’s full of Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, yes and Americans, all passing as white, because if they let it be known what they are, the natives will patronize the living bejesus out of them. They don’t really mean to be unkind; they just have this wonderful sense of being God’s noblest work.—Now it’s getting near the New Year. We must go back to the ballroom. Pretty soon all these Welshmen and Englishmen will be singing one of the most pedestrian verses of Robert Burns, and kissing each other. I wouldn’t miss it for worlds, and if you won’t be offended, I’ll hunt up Ceinwen. Happy New Year, Monica darling!”