When the news of the revolution in France had reached New York in the fall of 1789, many people had rejoiced, including James. Before long, James had received a letter from his friend the Count de Chablis. “He says that Lafayette and his friends are all supporting it. They want a new republic. America is their model.” Soon, even young Weston had been talking about the blessings of the new French freedoms—Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. It all sounded very fine. But not to John Master.

“It will end in a bloodbath,” he warned them. “Lafayette may dream of America—I dare say he does—but this French business isn’t the same at all. It’ll turn into a civil war, and civil wars get ugly.”

James did not agree. Chablis was confident, he told his father, that a compromise would be reached and that the French would soon be living with a limited monarchy, run by a parliament—something like England. John Master, however, had reminded James and Weston bleakly: “You forget the power of the mob. When there was a civil war in England, they cut off the king’s head.”

“You’re just a Tory, Grandfather,” Weston had said with a laugh.

“Take care, all the same,” Master had counseled James. “And stay away from Paris, whatever you do.”

He did harbor one other hope for James’s journey, though. No word had been heard from Vanessa for a long time. He supposed she was probably in London now. Though James had been having a discreet affair with a charming widow in New York for the last couple of years, Master hoped that his son might settle down with a new wife one day, but first his nonexistent marriage to Vanessa would have to be formally ended. Perhaps, he had gently suggested to James, this might be a useful business to attend to while he was over there.

So now, to restore peace and harmony, he bowed stiffly to Jefferson.

“I must apologize, sir, for my intemperate language,” he said politely. “And you must forgive me if I rise to defend the city where I was born. I am like a loyal husband, who defends his wife against criticism, even if he knows she has her faults.”

It was graciously said, and James looked relieved. Weston was glancing hopefully at Jefferson.

But Jefferson, who was not entirely without vanity, did not seem ready to reciprocate just yet. Tall, ramrod-straight, his finely hewn face still wore an expression of distaste. And it was while the brief silence persisted that Master, as much to reassure himself as anything, added one further thought.

“I am bound to say, sir, that whatever New York’s shortcomings, when you consider its position, its great harbor and its natural advantages, I hardly think it likely that a better capital could be found.”

And now a little gleam of triumph appeared in the great man’s eye.