he had no effect upon the servant, who was accustomed
to strange characters; and he was described
below stairs as "a queer customer."

"I have taken a liberty, a very great liberty, I
am afraid," he said, in tones which were gentle
—certainly gentlemanlike—and not what might
be expected from a grim casting, "to break in
on you without ceremony. It is only the necessity
of the case that must excuse me. Your dog,
last night— "

"O, I know," said Fermor, still pettishly; "he
disturbed me, too, as well as you. I am sure it
was no fault of mine. I could not divine it
beforehand."

The other began to grow yet more grim, his
words to get sharp and metallic in sound.

"I don't speak for myself. It would be very
hard to wake me. And if I was wakened it would
not make much matter. I must ask you to have
the dog sent away; in fact, I must insist on it,
without discussion."

There was a hard churlishness about the way
this was put which was offensive. Fermor coloured,
and hurriedly got into his most chilling
outside coat.

"If you had waited," he said, "you would
have heard that the dog was to be sent away
this very day. There is no necessity for insisting,
or for compulsion, or any allusion to such
things. What did I tell you this morning, Bates,
about the dog?"

"He is gone, sir. He was at the barracks an
hour ago."

This little conversational stroke brought back
all Fermor's good humour. The thought that
crossed his mind was, "How I excel in putting
down low rough beings of this sort."

"I am glad to hear it," said the other, not a
bit more softly. "I mistook, it seems. I
thought you might not be inclined to do as
asked. Sometimes, you know, you meet men
who object to do things because they are required
to do them. Some of your profession have
that way. You will recollect, I had never spoken
to you before."

"Well, curious to say, I always know a gentleman,"
said Fermor, "by a sort of instinct."
He was in excellent vein, he thought, that
morning.

"I am detaining you," said the other. "I
must again apologise for disturbing you. I
might have written, but writing is not nearly so
much to the point as speaking. Writing leads
only to more writing. It was only the necessity
of the ease and comfort of one whom I care for
more than I would for a dozen of myself, that
could force me in upon the world in this way.
In fact," he added, coming back a little, "it is
only fair to let you know, if I had heard your
dog last night, and he could not have been got
to remain quiet, I should have quieted him at
once. Between human welfare and canine life,
you know, I could not hesitate. Good morning!"

And with this he passed out and shut the door.

Fermor looked after him, indignant, fuming,
and yet mystified. "Such manners, such free
and easy airs! Like every one in this place!"
He tossed impatiently in his chair.

He was mending a good deal. He was better
to-day than he had been yesterday, and looking
in the glass, among his brushes heavy as ivory
mallets, and his silver-topped bottles which
might have filled innumerable bins in a small
perfumery cellar, he was struck by what he called
the "half delicate, half spiritual" tone his face
had assumed. He looked down at his fingers, and
rejoiced in their sort of mother-of-pearl tinge.
Then he was ready to "see" people. Some of
the "fellows" would be sure to come boring him
with their dull talk, and now they had him helpless
and at their mercy. But they did not come,
and he sat there fretting because they were sure
to come, and because, at the same time, they did
not come. Captain Fermor was, however, not
what is called popular with his fellows. The gap
in their social ranks was noticed for a day or so,
as a gap always makes itself noticed, but, beyond
this, there was no regret. When his accident,
and the little "sensation" it brought with it,
had begun to pall, no one thought of the invalid
wrecked upon the lonely shore of convalescence.
He was indignant at this desertion, and over and
over again pronounced them a "low, selfish set."

Young Brett, however, faithful as a terrier,
appeared about noon, and Fermor, a little grateful
for this attention, was almost inclined to pass
a short statute excepting him from the penal
clauses of general "lowness" and "cadship."
Young Brett had not much to say, yet, somehow,
was company. He had no flow of talk, and yet
people—notably "fellows"—looked kindly towards
him. Later, on his way out to India, he had
gone in and out of a poor stranger officer's cabin,
had cheered him with a word or two and a scrap
of ship news, had read him a newspaper, but all
without any effort or show. The sick officer
died, and was cast over the side. Long after,
when Young Brett had forgotten the voyage, he
received a letter from a famous London gunmaker
asking for directions as to the make of a
gun he was busy with for him. The other repudiated
the gun, and said there must be a
mistake, which brought out, that the sick officer
had added a postscript to the last letter he ever
wrote, begging his people at home to send Young
Brett a gun, as a token of how he esteemed his
kindness.

He was now looking out of the back window of
Fermor's lodgings, on the row of gardens, which
were large, and pretty, and grassy. It was a fine
sunny day. "Jove!" he said, "should like so
to roll oneself in the grass—lie there all day, you
know, and smoke cigar after cigar. You ought
to go out yourself. Yes, by Jove!" he added, as if
lighting on a sudden discovery, "the very thing."

"And lie on the grass," said Fermor, "all day?
No, no. That is not the life I should like."

"Well, I mean for a time, you know ; the
fresh air would set you up. Jove !" he added—