Now old Bounce, albeit a gentleman of extremely punctual habits, as is often the case with those who have nothing to do, and, moreover, a man of healthy appetite and a strong regard for the dinner-hour, had never before betrayed such a morbid anxiety to get home and dress as on the occasion in question. The fact is, he, too, was restless and excited, although the sensation had its own peculiar charms for the veteran, who entertained at sixty a spice of that romance which is often erroneously considered peculiar to sixteen. Yes, “the boy with the bow” no more disdained to take a shot at Bounce than at Falstaff, and our old friend was even now balancing on the brink of that eventful plunge which, if not made before “the grand climacteric,” it is generally thought advisable to postpone _sine die_. Mary Delaval had made an unconscious conquest. The feeling had been gradually but surely developed, and the constant presence of such a woman had been too much, even for a heart hardened by more than forty years of soldiering, baked by an Indian sun, and further defended by triple plies of flannel, worn for chronic rheumatism, and usually esteemed as effective a rampart against the assaults of love as the “æs triplex” of Horace itself. First the General thought, “This Mrs. Delaval was a very nice creature. Zounds! it’s lucky for her I’m not a younger man!” then he arrived at “_Beautiful_ woman, begad. _Zounds!_ it’s lucky for _me_ she’s not half aware of her attractions!” and from that the transition was easy and natural to “Sensible person; such manners, such dignity; fit for any position in the world. Zounds! I’ll make her Mrs. Bounce--do as I like--my own commanding-officer, nobody else to consult--of course _she_ won’t throw such a chance away.” This latter consideration, however, although he repeated it to himself twenty times a day, had hitherto prevented the General from making any decided attack. When a man, even an old one, _really_ cares for a woman, he is always somewhat diffident of success, and Mary’s sexagenarian suitor, though bold as brass in theory, was like any other lover in practice. But the breakfast at the barracks had wonderfully encouraged the General. He found Mrs. Delaval constantly at his side. He knew nothing of her previous acquaintance with D’Orville, still less could he guess at the secret which lay buried in her heart, and which was fading her beauty and deepening her expression day by day. How could he tell whose tears they were that blistered the newspaper on that “African Mail” column?--so the natural conclusion at which he arrived was, that the same charms which had done such execution in India, and had driven the Cheltenham widow to the verge of despair, were again at their old tricks; and that, having succeeded in attaching the most adorable of her sex, it only remained for him, in common humanity, to present her with all that was left of his fascinating self. And now began in earnest the General’s qualms