How to describe Lord Wellington? How can such a thing be necessary or even possible? His face is everywhere one looks – a cheap print upon the wall of the coaching inn – a much more elaborate one, embellished with flags and drums, at the top of the Assembly-room staircase. Nowadays no young lady of average romantic feeling will reach the age of seventeen without purchasing at least one picture of him. She will think a long, aquiline nose infinitely preferable to a short, stubby one and consider it the worst misfortune of her life that he is married already. To make up for it she fully intends to name her first-born son, Arthur. Nor is she alone in her devotion. Her younger brothers and sisters are every bit as fanatical. The handsomest toy soldier in an English nursery is always called Wellington and has more adventures than the rest of the toy box put together. Every schoolboy impersonates Wellington at least once a week, and so do his younger sisters. Wellington embodies every English virtue. He is Englishness carried to perfection. If the French carry Napoleon in their bellies (which apparently they do), then we carry Wellington in our hearts.²

Just at present Lord Wellington was none too pleased about something.

“My orders were perfectly clear, I think!” he said to the other two officers. “The Portuguese were to destroy all the corn that they could not carry away, so that it should not fall into the hands of the French. But I have just spent half the day watching the French soldiers going into the caves at Cartaxo and bringing out sacks again.”

“It was very hard for the Portuguese farmers to destroy their corn. They feared to be hungry,” explained one of the officers.

The other officer made the hopeful suggestion that perhaps it was not corn that the French had found in the sacks, but something else altogether less useful. Gold or silver, perhaps?

Lord Wellington eyed him coolly. “The French soldiers took the sacks to the windmills. The sails were going round in plain view! Perhaps you think they were milling gold? Dalziel, complain to the Portuguese authorities, if you please!” His gaze, darting angrily about the room, came to rest upon Strange. “Who is that?” he asked.

The officer called Dalziel murmured something in his lordship’s ear.

“Oh!” said Lord Wellington and then, addressing Strange, he said, “You are the magician.” The faintest note of inquiry pervaded his remark.

“Yes,” said Strange.

“Mr Norrell?”

“Ah, no. Mr Norrell is in England. I am Mr Strange.”

Lord Wellington looked blank.

“The other magician,” explained Strange.

“I see,” said Lord Wellington.

The officer called Dalziel stared at Strange with an expression of surprize, as if he thought that once Lord Wellington had told Strange who he was, it was rather ill-bred of him to insist on being someone else.

“Well, Mr Strange,” said Lord Wellington, “I fear you have had a wasted journey. I must tell you frankly that if I had been able to prevent your coming I would have done so. But now that you are here I shall take the opportunity to explain to you the great nuisance which you and the other gentleman have been to the Army.”