on my soul! But he had enemies—dozens of
them. I have reason to know it."

"Tell us about it, Romaine," said some of the
others. "Do now."

"O, it will all come out by-and-by," said he.
"They want to turn him into a felon. I suspect a
certain lady-friend of ours to be at the bottom of
it; one of your fine flashing Judith-and-Holo-
fernes pattern."

"Bet you a sovereign I name her," said a man
opposite him. "Alfred-place! eh?"

"Keep your sovereign for your tailor, my
friend," said Romaine, contemptuously. "For
a wonder, you have made a guess. You all
know," he said, dropping his voice, "that
Miss Manuel! She has done the thing, I'll
swear! I know her touch! It's so shabby, and
so like a woman: all about a sister of hers."

"She is a fine woman, though," said the "man"
who had offered the sovereign.

"Fine woman!" said Romaine, with disgust.
"I hate to hear fellows talk in that way, as if
they were speaking of joints of meat. Fine or
not fine, I dislike her. She is dangerous and
spiteful. I recommend all here to keep clear of
her."

Fermor listened, and heard all this with tingling
cheeks. Her name to be bandied about in
this low way in a public room, before waiters and
"men!" Long he had been watching for an
opportunity of some quarrel with Romaine;
some reasonable opening, when he could "put
him down." It seemed to be now hurrying on.

Romaine had turned suddenly, and had seen
Fermor. "O, ho!" he said; "we must mind
what we say. How de do, Fermor? He is one of
her sacred band. Don't denounce us, Fermor."

There were a dozen feet between Fermor and
the others. Over such a space he could not
bring himself to hurl back the retort he wished;
so he made no answer. The other gave a
significant glance at his fellows. He was rampant
with mischief and spirits. "I can't understand,"
he went on, "such a thing in nature as strong-
brained single women who can go about like
single men. I should like to have it explained
to me. The idea of having a club at one's house,
and taking in all the men of the town! You talk
of a fine woman! now, I like something petite—
something pretty, and soft, and dainty," and he
looked over at Fermor. The "men" laughed,
and Fermor thought it was because they knew to
what Romaine was alluding. He would have
given the world to have grappled with him on the
spot; but he did not know how to begin.

Presently Romaine and his men went away
noisily to the smoking-room, and then to the
billiard-room. Fermor got up promptly, and
followed them. He never took his eyes off
Romaine. The other seemed to understand him
perfectly, and, as he smoked and played, kept up
a running fire of strokes at him all the night;
"nagging," it would be called in popular slang.
Young Brett presently dropped in, and looked on.

"That's the style," said Romaine, pocketing
a ball with extraordinary violence. "Look at
that, Fermor! That's the way I treat any man,
woman, or child, that interferes with my play.
Pocket them, eh?"

He looked at Fermor insolently as he walked
past him to make a fresh stroke.

"Let them get out of my way, I warn them.
There again!" and he executed a vindictive
cannon. "I say, now, Brett, we'll call the white
ball Fermor. There he goes. Pocket again."
And he walked round once more. "Red ball.
Now, Fermor, you know who the red ball is for.
There she goes. No; not quite, this time!" He
missed his stroke.

Fermor sat on the benches with compressed
lips. He was waiting till the room cleared a
little more. There were only half a dozen men
there.

HOW TO RECRUIT THE ENGLISH
ARMY.

CERTAIN circumstances had allowed me some
years ago to show kindness to a French officer
when he was sick in a foreign land, and he
wished to return my hospitality. I wished
much to see something of the interior life of a
French regiment; and, like all who take an
interest in our own service, I had for some time
past watched the gradual falling off in the number
of recruits for the English army, and had
certain theories of my own which I wanted to
test by the working of the conscription system
in France. I therefore accepted the invitation.

In the French army it is not customary for
all the officers of a corps to dine together.
What in our service is called the mess, has of
late years been introduced into the Imperial
Guard by the Emperor, but the system is not
found to work well. In the line, the custom is
for the unmarried field-officers to dine together
at some pension, or hotel, where a table d'hote
is kept up for their exclusive use at a fixed hour
every day. In like manner the captains of the
regiment dine together at another pension, whilst
the subalterns have a third—generally the best,
because the members are the most numerous—
table for themselves, which is quite apart from
their brother-officers. Myfriend being a captain in
the regiment, I every day breakfasted and dined
with him at the pension where he and his eighteen
or twenty brother-captains had their meals. We
had our déjeûner à la fourchette every morning
at nine, and our dinner at five. For this feeding—
and I defy any man of moderate means to have
two better meals—each officer who sat down to
table paid the sum of sixty francs a month, or
about one shilling and eightpence sterling a
day. I often contrasted this amount with what
my own mess bills used to be in the English
army, when my month's pay was barely enough
to meet the expenses of eating and drinking a
not very well cooked dinner and a little fiery
wine, without taking into consideration the
cost, of breakfast in my own room. For these
sixty francs a month, the French officers had