That night, in the hotel, Grafton and Crittenden watched the crowd from
a divan of red plush, Grafton chatting incessantly. Around them moved
and sat the women of the "House of the Hundred Thousand"--officers'
wives and daughters and sisters and sweethearts and army
widows--claiming rank and giving it more or less consciously, according
to the rank of the man whom they represented. The big man with the
monocle and the suit of towering white from foot to crown was the
English naval attaché. He stalked through the hotel as though he had the
British Empire at his back.

"And he has, too," said Grafton. "You ought to see him go down the steps
to the café. The door is too low for him. Other tall people bend
forward--he always rears back."

And the picturesque little fellow with the helmet was the English
military attaché. Crittenden had seen him at Chickamauga, and Grafton
said they would hear of him in Cuba. The Prussian was handsome, and a
Count. The big, boyish blond was a Russian, and a Prince, as was the
quiet, modest, little Japanese--a mighty warrior in his own country. And
the Swede, the polite, the exquisite!

"He wears a mustache guard. I offered him a cigar. He saluted: 'Thank
you,' he said. 'Nevare I schmoke.'"

"They are the pets of the expedition," Grafton went on, "they and that
war-like group of correspondents over there. They'll go down on the
flag-ship, while we nobodies will herd together on one boat. But we'll
all be on the same footing when we get there."