Nor was it altogether blamable in me, for as I looked through the uncurtained window, I could see the Captain, a fine-looking, rather tigerish sort of fellow, standing with his back to the fireplace, while he talked to Miss Herbert, who sat some distance off at a work-table. There was in his air that amount of jaunty ease and self-possession that said, “I 'm at home here; in this fortress I hold the chief command.” There was about him, too, the tone of an assumed superiority, which, when displayed by a man towards a woman, takes the most offensive of all possible aspects. As he talked, he moved at last towards a window, and, opening it, held out his hand to feel if it were raining. “I hope,” cried he, “you'll not send me back with a refusal; her Ladyship counts upon you as the chief ornament of her ball.” “We never do go to balls, sir,” was the dry response. “But make this occasion the exception. If you only knew how lamentably we are off for pretty people, you 'd pity us. Such garrison wives and daughters are unknown to the oldest inhabitant of the island. Surely Mrs. Keats will be quite well by Wednesday, and she 'll not be so cruel as to deny you to us for this once.” “I can but repeat my excuses,--I never go out.” “If you say so, I think I'll abandon all share in the enterprise. It was a point of honor with me to persuade you; in fact, I pledged myself to succeed, and if you really persist in a refusal, I 'II just pitch all these notes in the fire, and go off yachting till the whole thing is over.” And with this he drew forth a mass of notes from his sabretache, and proceeded to con over the addresses: “'Mrs. Hilyard,' 'Mr. Barnes,' 'Mr. Clintosh,' 'Lady Bladgen.' Oh, Lady Blagden! Why, it would be worth while coming only to see her and Sir John; and here are the Crosbys too; and what have we here! Oh! this is a note from Grey. You don't know my brother Grey,--he 'd amuse you immensely. Just listen to this, by way of a letter of introduction:-- “'Dear George,--Cherish the cove that will hand you this note as the most sublime snob I have ever met in all my home and foreign experiences. In a large garrison like yours, you can have no difficulty in finding fellows to give him a field-day. I commit him, therefore, to your worthy keeping, to dine him, draw him forth, and pitch him out of the window when you've done with him. No harm if it is from the topmost story of the highest barrack in Malta. His name is Potts,--seriously and truthfully Potts. Birth, parentage, and belongings all unknown to “'Yours ever,' “'Grey Buller.'” “You are unfortunate, sir, in confiding your correspondence to me,” said Kate, rising from her seat, “for that gentleman is a friend--a sincere and valued friend--of my own, and you could scarcely have found a more certain way to offend me than to speak of him slightingly.” “You can't mean that you know him--ever met him?”