and man-trap, and yet nothing come of it? But so it was. The first question a newly-landed regiment was asked, if coming from where they resided, was, “Well, how are the girls?” “Oh, gloriously. Matty is there.” “Ah, indeed! poor thing.” “Has Fan sported a new habit?” “Is it the old gray with the hussar braiding? Confound it, that was seedy when I saw them in Corfu. And Mother Dal as fat and vulgar as ever?” “Dawson of ours was the last, and was called up for sentence when we were ordered away; of course, he bolted,” etc. Such was the invariable style of question and answer concerning them; and although some few, either from good feeling or fastidiousness, relished but little the mode in which it had become habitual to treat them, I grieve to say that, generally, they were pronounced fair game for every species of flirtation and love-making without any “intentions” for the future. I should not have trespassed so far upon my readers’ patience, were I not, in recounting these traits of my friends above, narrating matters of history. How many are there who may cast their eyes upon these pages, that will say, “Poor Matilda! I knew her at Gibraltar. Little Fanny was the life and soul of us all in Quebec.” “Mr. O’Malley,” said the adjutant, as I presented myself in the afternoon of my arrival in Cork to a short, punchy, little red-faced gentleman, in a short jacket and ducks, “you are, I perceive, appointed to the 14th; you will have the goodness to appear on parade to-morrow morning. The riding-school hours are----. The morning drill is----; evening drill----. Mr. Minchin, you are a 14th man, I believe? No, I beg pardon! a carbineer; but no matter. Mr. O’Malley, Mr. Minchin; Captain Dounie, Mr. O’Malley. You’ll dine with us to-day, and to-morrow you shall be entered at the mess.” “Yours are at Santarem, I believe?” said an old, weather-beaten looking officer with one arm. “I’m ashamed to say, I know nothing whatever of them; I received my gazette unexpectedly enough.” “Ever in Cork before, Mr. O’Malley?” “Never,” said I. “Glorious place,” lisped a white-eyelashed, knocker-kneed ensign; “splendid _gals_, eh?” “Ah, Brunton,” said Minchin, “you may boast a little; but we poor devils--” “Know the Dals?” said the hero of the lisp, addressing me. “I haven’t that honor,” I replied, scarcely able to guess whether what he alluded to were objects of the picturesque or a private family. “Introduce him, then, at once,” said the adjutant; “we’ll all go in the evening. What will the old squaw think?” “Not I,” said Minchin. “She wrote to the Duke of York about my helping Matilda at supper, and not having any honorable intentions afterwards.” “We dine at ‘The George’ to-day, Mr. O’Malley, sharp seven. Until then--” So saying, the little man bustled back to his accounts, and I took my leave with the rest, to stroll about the town till dinner-time. CHAPTER XXIV. THE ADJUTANT’S DINNER.