"Yes, Mr. Smith. Money won't do't, sir. My master gives good wages, and I'm quite independing of visitors. But when a gentleman says to me, 'Beeves, I'm obliged to you,' why then, Mr. Smith, you feels at one _and_ the same time, that he's a gentleman, and that you aint a boot-jack or a coal-scuttle. It's the sentiman, Mr. Smith. If he despises us, why, we despises him. And we don't like waiting on a gentleman as aint a gentleman. Ring the bell, Mr. Smith, when you want anythink, and _I'll_ attend to you." He had been twenty years in the colonel's service. He was not an old soldier, yet had a thorough _esprit de corps_, looking, upon service as an honourable profession. In this he was not only right, but had a vast advantage over everybody whose profession is not sufficiently honourable for his ambition. All such must _feel_ degraded. Beeves was fifty; and, happily for his opinion of his profession, had never been to London. And the colonel was the best of masters; for because he ruled well, every word of kindness told. It is with servants as with children and with horses--it is of no use caressing them unless they know that you mean them to go. When the dinner-bell rang, I proceeded to the drawing-room. The colonel was there, and I thought for a moment that he was alone. But I soon saw that a couch by the fire was occupied by his daughter, the Adela after whose health I had heard young Percy Cathcart inquiring. She was our hostess, for Mrs. Cathcart had been dead for many years, and Adela had been her only child. I approached to pay my respects, but as soon as I got near enough to see her face, I turned involuntarily to her father, and said, "Cathcart, you never told me of this!" He made me no reply; but I saw the long stern upper lip twitching convulsively. I turned again to Adela, who tried to smile--with precisely the effect of a momentary gleam of sunshine upon a cold, leafless, and wet landscape. "Adela, my dear, what is the matter?" "I don't know, uncle." She had called me uncle, since ever she had begun to speak, which must have been nearly twenty years ago. I stood and looked at her. Her face was pale and thin, and her eyes were large, and yet sleepy. I may say at once that she had dark eyes and a sweet face; and that is all the description I mean to give of her. I had been accustomed to see that face, if not rosy, yet plump and healthy; and those eyes with plenty of light for themselves, and some to spare for other people. But it was neither her wan look nor her dull eyes that distressed me: it was the expression of her face. It was very sad to look at; but it was not so much sadness as utter and careless hopelessness that it expressed. "Have you any pain, Adela?" I asked. "No," she answered. "But you feel ill?" "Yes." "How?" "I don't know." And as she spoke, she tapped with one finger on the edge of the _couvre-pied_ which was thrown over her, and gave a sigh as if her very heart was weary of everything.