"I mean," said Little Brett, "it turns out that
all the while she is to marry that fellow. Any
fellow would be taken in, you know."

"I can't keep up with you at all," said Fermor.
"Your partiality for that word is quite confusing.
Have you heard anything since? What
do the precious gossips you go among say?"

"Well, Showers says—"

"O, Showers!" said Fermor, with contempt.
(Showers was Thersites.) "Is he to be quoted?"

"I don't know," said the other. "He picks
up whatever is going on, and he says they have
settled it all, and that you—"

"I!" said Fermor, colouring. "Do you mean
to say they have been daring to mix my name up
in the business? I hope you have not been—I
am sure you have—"

"No, no," said the other, in great alarm. "It
was only one night that Showers was talking
about you, and saying you went 'sniggering'
after every girl, making people think they were
dying for you, and I got angry, and—and—"

''And told what you saw that night," said
Fermor, very hot and excited. "Just what I
would expect. It was a great liberty. You had
no business to do it. Such a thing!" And
he began walking up and down the room.

"I never meant, I am sure—" said Little
Brett, penitently.

"And how did he and those people take it?
You may tell it all now."

"Well, they laughed," said the other, with
great eagerness and candour, as a kind of atonement,
"in a sort of way, you know. And Showers
said he didn't believe it, that it was all brag, and
that you were always in some 'sickly dream' or
other, and that he had it from Hanbury himself,
that very morning, that it was all settled."

Fermor groaned once more. This, again, was
like being plunged into the sea on a December
morning.

Little Brett, somewhat scared, left him still
pacing up and down, and in great distress. He
was morally shivering every time he thought of
that odious Thersites Showers and his coarse
jesting, and of the loud chorus laugh of the rest.
Above all, his emphasis rested on "that stupid
Brett." "But what could be expected," he said,
with all scorn and pity, "from such a set?
Not a gentleman among them: even their
names—Thrupp, Slack! I should like to give
them a lesson—to take them down a bit. I
should like to show their mean natures how little
they know about the matter." And with many
bitter similes he seemed to be laying out some
very satisfactory schemes which would confound
them all, and lay them grovelling at his feet.

CHAPTER XV. A CONVALESCENT VISITOR.

HE was very indignant with the Manuel family,
who had neglected him, as he considered it.
The son came once only to ask after him, and he
had merely called at the door. Not that he desired
his society; for he considered him a sort of
"low," brusque, ill-mannered foreigner, who, it
was plain, had never been with gentlemen. He
(Fermor) could tell in a second whether he was
"the real thing" or no. Clearly a fellow out of
an orchestra. And this notion, which seemed to
him something in the style of M. About, appeared
a very happy illustration. "A low fellow out of an
orchestra!" There was only the one lady in the
family—and the more he thought of that little
night incident, the more soft and agreeable it
seemed. He thought of her as a "poor" faithful
little worshipper. She was very pretty, and he
declared that, as soon as he got well, she should be
rewarded. If he had heard any one talk of
"rewarding a girl " by a visit, he would have scoffed
at him as a low, ungentlemanly creature; even if
he were talking aloud with no one present, he
would not have used such a form of words; but
still the idea, as a sort of motive for his resolution,
was present to him.

His health was mending rapidly. The fresh
air of the place was serviceable; the improvement
could be marked day by day. He had been
down to his barracks; in a few days more he was
to resume duty.

He dressed himself with care, looked in the
mirror over the chimney-piece, and thought there
was a refined "spiritual" tone, in such delicate
colouring as there was in his face, not to be
matched in the district. A gentle air of
weakness which would contrast well with the
coarse robustness and gross health of some of
his fellows. Going to a box of gloves, he chose
out a pair—faintly coloured too, as with a blush
—so as to be in keeping.

It was about five o'clock in the evening, and
he sauntered straight to the house of the
Manuels. The maid who had thought him
"lovely," and who, indeed, had dwelt on his
image very often since, broke into rustic smiles.
"O yes, sir, I am sure they are in—some of the
ladies."

He went up before her, opened the drawing-room
door himself, and entered. There was only
one figure there, sitting on a little low chair and
looking listlessly out of the window, with her
book half closed upon her knee. She did not
even look round as she heard the door open.

She was pale. As Fermor did not speak, she
looked round, started to her feet with a sort of cry,
half ran forward—then stopped, her face and neck
bathed in glowing carmine. She felt this rich
colour dyeing her face, and put up both hands.

"Quite well?" said Fermor, delighted with
these signs of his power. "This is the first day
I have got out—the first hour, I may say—and
yours is the first place I have found my way to."

She stood quite irresolute. "O," she said, "I
am so glad. You must have suffered so much."

"I suppose I shall get strong again," said
Fermor, "some of these days. May I get myelf
a chair?" he added, with a smile, as though
he were saying some very lively thing.

Her face assumed a scared look at once. "O
yes," she said; "but I am afraid—"

A shade came upon Fermor's fair forehead.