"Luck, sir, luck. I'm married, and got a pot
of money with my wife." He dropped his voice
to a whisper, while, with a gesture of his thumb
towards an adjoining room, he motioned his
friend to be cautious.

"Who was she?"

"Nobody: that is, not any one you ever heard
of. Stockport people, called Reppingham. The
father, a great railway contractor, vulgar old dog
— begun as a navvy— with one daughter, who
is to inherit, they say, a quarter of a million;
but, up to this, we've only an allowance— two
thousand a year. The old fellow, however, lives
with us— a horrible nuisance." This speech,
given in short, abrupt whispers, was uttered
with many signs to indicate that the respected
father-in-law was in the vicinity. " Now, of
yourself, what's your news? What have you done
last, eh?"

"Nothing very remarkable. I have been
vegetating on a lake in the north of Italy, trying
to live for five shillings a day, and spending
three more in brandy, to give me courage to do
it."

"But your leave is up; or perhaps you have
got a renewal."

"No, my leave goes to the fifteenth of October."

"Not a bit of it; we got our leave on the
same day, passed the Board the same day, and
for exactly the same time. My leave expired on
the tenth of August. I'll show you the paper,
I have it here."

"Do so. Let me see it."

Barnard opened his desk, and quickly found
the paper he sought for. It was precisely as
Barnard said. The Board of Calcutta had
confirmed the regimental recommendation, and
granted a two-years' leave, which ended on the
tenth of August.

"Never mind, man," said Barnard; "get
back to London as hard as you can, furbish up
some sick certificate to say that you were unable
to quit your bed—"

"That is not so easy as you imagine; I have
a little affair in hand, which may end in more
publicity than I have any fancy for." And he
told him of his approaching meeting with Graham,
and asked him to be his friend.

"What was the quarrel about? " asked
Barnard.

"A jealousy; he was going to marry a little
cousin I used to flirt with, and we got to words
about it. In fact, it is what Sir Lucius would
call a very pretty quarrel, and there's nothing
to be done but finish it. You'll stand by me,
won't you?"

"I don't see how I can. Old Rep, our
governor, never leaves me. I'm obliged to report
myself about four times a day."

"But you know that can never go on. You
needn't be told by me that no man can continue
such a system of slavery, nor is there anything
could recompense it. You'll have to teach her
better one of these days; begin at once. My
being here gives you a pretext to begin. Start
at once— to-day. Just say, 'I'll have to show
Calvert the lions; he'll want to hunt up galleries, '
and such-like."

"Hush! here comes my wife. Fanny, let
me present to you one of my oldest friends,
Calvert . it's a name you have often heard from
me."

The young lady— she was not more than twenty
— was pleasing-looking and well-mannered. Indeed,
Calvert was amazed to see her so unlike
what, he expected; she was neither pretentious
nor shy; and, had his friend not gone into the
question of pedigree, was there anything to mark
a class in life other than his own. While they
talked together they were joined by her father,
who, however, more than realised the sketch
drawn by Barnard. He was a morose, down-looking
old fellow, with a furtive expression, and
a manner of distrust about him that showed
itself in various ways. From the first, though
Calvert set vigorously to work to win his
favour, he looked with a sort of misgiving at him.
He spoke very little, but in that little there
were no courtesies wasted; and when Barnard
whispered, "You had better ask him to dine
with us, the invitation will come better from
you!" the reply was, "I won't; do you hear
that? I won't."

"But he's an old brother-officer of mine, sir;
we served several years together."

"The worse company yours, then."

"I say, Calvert," cried Barnard, aloud, " I
must give you a peep at our gay doings here.
I'll take you a drive round the town, and out of
the Porta Orientale, and if we should not be back
at dinner-time, Fanny— "

"We'll dine without you, that's all!" said
the old man; while, taking his daughter's hand,
he led her out of the room.

"I say, Bob, I'd not change with you, even
for the difference," said Calvert.

"I never saw him so bad before," said the
other, sheepishly.

"Because you never tried him! Hitherto
you have been a spaniel, getting kicked and
cuffed, and rather liking it; but, now that
the sight of an old friend has rallied you to a
faint semblance of your former self, you are
shocked and horrified. You made a bad start,
Bob; that was the mistake. You ought to have
begun by making him feel the immeasurable
distance there lay between him and a gentleman;
not only in dress, language, and behaviour,
but in every sentiment and feeling.
Having done this, he would have tacitly submitted
to ways that were not his own, by conceding
that they might be those of a class he
had never belonged to. You might, in short,
have ruled hin quietly and constitutionally.
Now you have nothing for it but one thing."

"Which is—"

"A revolution! Yes, you must overthrow
the whole government, and build up another out
of the smash. Begin to-day. We'll dine together
wherever you like. We'll go to the Scala
if it's open. We'll sup —"

"But Fanny?"

"She'll stand by her husband. Though, probably,