“She is very pretty. She is more than pretty, she is charming.” “And supposing some other fellow steps in, and snaps her up whilst you are stewing over your Hindustani. How will you like _that_?” George’s face was a study in complacency. “I am not afraid,” he said quietly. “You ought to have spoken, and offered yourself at any rate.” “Of course!” rather bitterly, “with nothing to settle on her but a sword, and a tailor’s bill.” “Well, I hope you will come out of it all right. Have you got her photograph?” “Yes,” examining it critically, “well, it’s a nice face, but one cannot judge; she may be marked with small-pox or have weak eyes, or a bad figure.” “She has grey eyes, and is as tall and straight as a young fir tree,” rejoined George indignantly. “A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, eh? And what is her name?” “Elizabeth, but they call her Betty. Elizabeth Redmond.” “Any relation to the Collector here?” “I don’t know, very probably.” “And what are your plans, if I may presume to enquire?” “To pass if I can, and get something that will add to my pay, and then to write home and ask her to come out and marry me. _She_ understands me!” “I am glad to hear it, for it’s more than I do,” rejoined his comrade angrily. “You must excuse me for not receiving your news with the enthusiasm it deserves, but you know, George, you always swore that you would not marry before you were a major, if then.” “Very likely, but with all these new warrants I began to think I might _never_ be a major; you won’t say anything about it.” “Trust me,” he responded with a gesture of impatience; “besides, you are not engaged, and the worst may not come to the worst: there is many a slip between the cup and the lip. If you were in any other scrape I would lend you money, and for as long as you liked and insist on your taking it, but I’ll never lift a finger to help you to a wife.”