“Poor bachelors,” simpered Sir Bloomer Buttercup, riding up with his best air, he having dropped behind (a young rogue!) to make eyes at a very smart lady on the _trottoir_. “Poor fellows, nobody lets us alone, Bounce, and yet we’re perfectly harmless--innocent as doves. I wish I was married, though, too; it fixes one, eh? keeps the butterfly constant to the rose;” and Sir Bloomer heaved his padded chest with an admirably got-up sigh, still shooting _oeillades_ at the nowise disconcerted lady on the _trottoir_. You would hardly have guessed Sir Bloomer to be sixty-five; at least, not as he appeared before the world on that cantering grey horse. To be sure, he had his riding costume on; riding hat, riding wig, riding coat, trousers, boots, and padding; not to mention a belt, the loosening of which let the whole fabric fall to pieces. They say he is lifted on his horse; we have reason to believe he could not _walk_ five yards in that dress to save his life. Perhaps if we saw him, as his valet does, divested of his beautiful white teeth, his dark hair and whiskers, his florid healthy colour, and that stalwart deep-chested figure of buckram and wadding which encases the real man within, we might not be disposed to question the accuracy of Burke’s “Peerage and Baronetage” in point of dates. But as he sits now, on his high broke horse, in his well-stuffed saddle, the very youngest of the shavelings who aspire to dandyism call him “Buttercup” to his face, and plume themselves on his notice, and quote him, and look up to him, not as a beacon, but an example. “You’re _right_, sir,” says the General, with his accustomed energy, in a tone that makes the black cob start beneath him. “Don’t tell me--should have married forty years ago. Never mind; better late than never. Now, I’ll tell you, I’ve thought of it. We’re not to live entirely for ourselves. How d’ye mean? I’ve thought of it, I tell you!” “_Thought_ of it, have you?” rejoined Mulligatawney, with a grim smile; “then at _your_ time of life, Bounce, I should recommend you to confine yourself to _thinking_ of it.” “Not at all, my dear fellow,” lisps Sir Bloomer. “Bounce, I congratulate you. Introduce me, _pray_. Is she charming? young? beautiful? graceful? Happy Bounce--lucky dog--irresistible warrior!” The General feels three inches taller, and resolves to settle the matter the instant he gets home. But Mulligatawney interposes with his sardonic grin. “No fool like an old one. You’ll excuse me, but if you ask my advice, I’ll give it you in three words, ‘Do and Repent’; you’ll never regret it but once--_experto crede_.” The General turns from one to the other, like the Wild Huntsman between his ghostly advisers, the Radiant Spirit on his white charger, and the Mocking Demon on his steed from hell--he feels quite incapable of making up his mind.