revenged himself by affecting to regard him as the ordinary 'plunger' of the period--necessary for purposes of defence and a first-rate leader of native cavalry, but socially dull, and a fair object for an occasional irreverence. Sutton's tendency was to be more silent than usual when Desvoeux was of the party. Desvoeux, on the other hand, would not have let Sutton's or the prophet Jeremiah's presence act as a damper on spirits which were always at boiling-point and a temperament which was for ever effervescing into some more or less indiscreet form of mirth. The result was that the one man quite eclipsed the other and tossed the ball of talk about with an ease and dexterity not always quite respectful to his less agile senior. One night, for instance, Maud, in a sudden freak of fancy, had set her heart upon a round of story-telling. 'I shall come last of course,' she said, 'as I propose it, and by that time it will be bedtime; but, Major Sutton, you must tell us something about some of your battles, please, something very romantic and exciting.' Sutton was the victim of a morbid modesty as to all his soldiering exploits and would far rather have fought a battle than described it. 'Ah,' he said, 'but our fighting out here is not at all romantic; it is mostly routine, you know, and not picturesque or amusing.' 'Yes, but,' said Maud, 'tell us something that is picturesque or amusing: a hairbreadth escape, or a forlorn hope, or a mine. I love accounts of mines. You dig and dig for weeks, you know, and then you're countermined and hear the enemy digging near you; and then you put the powder in and light the match, and run away, and then--now you go on!' 'And then there is a smash, I suppose,' laughed Sutton; 'but you know all about it better than I. I'm not a gunner--all my work is above-ground.' 'Well, then,' cried Maud, with the eager air of a child longing for a story, 'tell us something above ground. How did you get your Victoria Cross, now?' Maud, however, was not destined to get a story out of Sutton. 'There was nothing romantic about _that_, at any rate,' he said. 'It was at Mírabad. There was a cannon down at the end of the lane which was likely to be troublesome, and some of our fellows went down with me and spiked it. That was all!' 'Excuse me, Miss Vernon,' said Desvoeux; 'Sutton's modesty spoils an excellent story. Let me tell it as it deserves.' And then he threw himself into a mock-tragical attitude. 'Go on,' said Maud, eagerly. 'The street-fighting at Mírabad,' said Desvoeux, with a declamatory air, 'was the fiercest of the whole campaign----' 'What campaign?' asked Sutton. 'The Mírabad campaign,' replied the other, with great presence of mind, 'in eighteen hundred and--, I forget the year--but never mind.' 'Yes, never mind the year,' said Maud; 'go on.'