The young man wore a Newmarket coat, natty white gloves, and carried an eyeglass.

His face was well coloured, his chestnut moustache well brushed, and his blue eyes with their loving expression seemed to say, "Look at me--come, look at me--can anyone be better fed ?" His valise and hat-box, of the best leather, bore the inscription, "E.

Maydew, 8th Lancers." There was a lady leaning back in a corner, wrapped to the chin in a fur garment, and the young man, encountering through his eyeglass her cool, ironical glance, dropped it and held out his hand.
"Ah, Mrs.Bellew, great pleasure t'see you again so soon.

You goin' up to town?
Jolly dance last night, wasn't it?
Dear old sort, the Squire, and Mrs.Pendyce such an awf'ly nice woman." Mrs.Bellew took his hand, and leaned back again in her corner.

She was rather paler than usual, but it became her, and Captain Maydew thought he had never seen so charming a creature.
"Got a week's leave, thank goodness.