Our recollection of the strangest scene ever witnessed filled us with I know not what scornful pleasure, and laughed in the background at any sight or marvel pretending to amuse us.

Temple and I cantered over the great Belgian battlefield, talking of Bella Vista tower, the statue, the margravine, our sour milk and black-bread breakfast, the little Princess Ottilia, with her 'It is my question,' and 'You were kind to my lambs, sir,' thoughtless of glory and dead bones.

My father was very differently impressed.

He was in an exultant glow, far outmatching the bloom on our faces when we rejoined him.

I cried, 'Papa, if the prince won't pay for a real statue, I will, and I'll present it in your name!' 'To the nation ?' cried he, staring, and arresting his arm in what seemed an orchestral movement.
'To the margravine!' He heard, but had to gather his memory.