“Get there,--and why not? Fifty thousand British bayonets are a match for the world in arms. It is a head we want, sir,--capacity to deal with the great questions of strategy. Even you yourself must have remarked that we have no generalship,--no guidance--” “I won't say that,” said Conway, quietly. “We're knocking hard at Sebastopol, and all we can say is we have n't found the weak spot yet.” “The weak spot! Why, it 's all weak,--earthworks, nothing but earthworks! Now, don't tell me that Wellington would have minded earthworks! Ah, we have fallen upon sad times!” sighed he, piteously. “Our land commanders say earthworks are impregnable; our admirals say stone walls can't be attacked.” Conway laughed again, and lighted a fresh cigarette. “And what pension have you for that?” asked Clowes, glancing at the empty sleeve. “A mere trifle; I can't exactly tell you, for I have not applied for it” “I would, though; I 'd have it out of them, and I 'd have whatever I could, besides. They 'd not give _you_ the Bath; that they keep for gentlemen--” Conway took his cigar from his lips, and while his cheek burned, he seemed about to reply; then, resuming his smoking, he lay back and said nothing. “After all,” said Clowes, “there must be distinctions of rank. One regrets, one deplores, but can't help it Look at all the attempts at equality, and see their failures. No, sir, you have _your_ place in the social scale, and I have _mine_.” Now, when Mr. Clowes had enunciated this sentiment, he seemed suddenly to be struck by its severity; for he added, “Not but that every man is respectable in his own rank; don't imagine that I look down upon you.” Conway's eyes opened widely as he stared at him, and he puffed his cigar a little more energetically, but never spoke. “You 've done with the service, I suppose?” said Clowes, after a while. “I'm afraid so,” said Conway, sighing. “Well, _he_”--and he jerked his thumb towards Dunn's room--“he is the man to help you to something snug. He can give away places every hour of the day. Ay, sir,” said he, warming, “he can make anything, from an archbishop to a barony constable.” “I rather fear that my capacity for employment might not be found very remarkable. I have idle habits and ways,” said Conway, smiling. “Bad things, my friend,--bad things for any man, but especially for a poor one. I myself began life in an humble way,--true, I assure you; but with industry, zeal, and attention, I am what you see me.” “That _is_ encouraging, certainly,” said Conway, gravely. “It is so, and I mention it for your advantage.” Charles Conway now arose, and threw the half-smoked cigar into the fire. The movement betokened impatience, and, sooth to say, he was half angry with himself; for, while disposed to laugh at the vanity and conceit of the worthy butler, he still felt that he was his guest, and that such ridicule was ill applied to one whose salt he had eaten.