She liked the French (though no one was keener for the honour of her own country in opposition to them), she liked their splendid boyishness, their unequalled devotion, their merciless intellects; the oneness of the nation when the sword is bare and pointing to chivalrous enterprise.
She liked their fine varnish of sentiment, which appears so much on the surface that Englishmen suppose it to have nowhere any depth; as if the outer coating must necessarily exhaust the stock, or as if what is at the source of our being can never be made visible.
She had her imagination of them as of a streaming banner in the jaws of storm, with snows among the cloud-rents and lightning in the chasms:--which image may be accounted for by the fact that when a girl she had in adoration kissed the feet of Napoleon, the giant of the later ghosts of history.
It was a princely compliment.

She received it curtseying, and disarmed the intended irony.

In reply, she called him "Great Britain." I regret to say that he stood less proudly for his nation.

Indeed, he flushed.
He remembered articles girding at the policy of peace at any price, and half felt that Mrs.Lovell had meant to crown him with a Quaker's hat.

His title fell speedily into disuse; but, "Yes, France," and "No, France," continued, his effort being to fix the epithet to frivolous allusions, from which her ingenuity rescued it honourably.
Had she ever been in love?
He asked her the question.