"Well, nineteen, then. There, there, you are only a boy yet, so why not be content to be a boy? You'll grow old quite fast enough, my dear lad. Do you know why I like you?" "Well, not exactly. But you do like me, don't you, Glen?" "Like you? Yes, when you are what I see before me now, boyish and natural. When you put on those confounded would-be manly airs, and grow affected and mincing as some confounded Burlington Arcade dandy, I think to myself, What a contemptible little puppy it is!" "I say, you know--" cried the lad, and he tried to look offended. "Say away, stupid! Well?" Captain Marcus Glen, of Her Majesty's 50th Lancers, a detachment of which, from the headquarters at Hounslow, were stationed at Hampton Court, sank back in his chair, let fall the newspaper he had been reading, and took out and proceeded to light a cigar, while Richard Millet flushed up angrily, got off the edge of the table where he had been sitting and swinging a neat patent-leather boot adorned with a spur, and seemed for a moment as if he were about to leave the room in a pet. Marcus Glen saw this and smiled. "Have a cigar, Dick?" he said. The lad frowned, and it was on his lips to say, "Thanks, I have plenty of my own," but his eyes met those of the speaker looking kindly and half laughingly in his, and the feeling of reverence for the other's manly attributes, as well as his vanity at being the chosen friend of one he considered to be the finest fellow in the regiment, made him pause, hesitate, and then hold out his hand for the cigar. "Better not take it, Dick. Tobacco stops the growth." The boy paused with the cigar in his hand, and the other burst into a merry laugh, rose lazily, lit a match, and handed it to the young officer, clapping him directly after upon the shoulder. "Look here, Dick," he said; "shall I give you the genuine receipt how to grow into a strong, honest Englishman?" "Yes," cried the lad eagerly, the officer and the would-be man dropped, for the schoolboy to reassert itself in full force. "I wish you would, Glen, 'pon my soul I do." "Forget yourself then, entirely, and don't set number one up for an idol at whose shrine you are always ready to worship." "I don't quite understand you," said the lad, reddening ingenuously. "Oh yes, you do, Dick, or you would not have been measured this morning, and made that little nick with the razor on your cheek in shaving off nothing but soap. If you did not worship your confounded small self, you would not have squeezed your feet into those wretched little boots, nor have waxed those twenty-four hairs upon your upper lip; and 'pon my word, Dick, that really is a work of supererogation, for the world at large, that is to say our little world at large, is perfectly ignorant of their existence." "Oh, I say, you are hard on a man, Glen! 'Pon my soul, you are;" and the handsome little fellow looked, with his flushed cheeks and white skin, more girlish than ever.