He was president of the mess, organised entertainments that were invariably a success, arranged the daily menus, overawed all the waiters, and knew how to put a crusty commanding officer through a course of the most soothing dinner treatment. In fact, he was king of the mess, by universal acclamation, and to hear that he was to lose his right hand, his prime favourite, by marriage, was a blow as painful as it was unexpected. Captain La Touche had some French blood in his veins, and spoke the language like a native. His manners to ladies were unapproachable for chivalrous politeness, and yet, like Miss Dopping, he preferred to associate with the sterner sex; nevertheless he was a keen observer and took an almost effeminate interest in their dress. As to his own outward appearance, it was the result of patient study, and the mirror at which many another man fashioned himself. For a first-rate opinion on a coat, a dinner, a point of etiquette or a claret vintage, you could not go to a better person than Captain Cosmo La Touche; extremes meet; he and his chosen friend were almost diametrically opposite in mind, body and estate. One was a Sybarite, the other a sportsman; one was a philosopher, the other a man of action. One could eat anything that was set before him, the other would sooner perish! I am afraid we cannot conceal from ourselves that Captain La Touche is a _bon vivant_, and is very proud of his delicate palate. Indeed, he has publicly given out that the woman who aspires to be Mrs. La Touche--be she never so beautiful--must have taken honours at the school of cookery! He gave a good many of his thoughts to George’s affairs, as he lay in a Bombay chair and smoked cigarette after cigarette, meditating sadly on his friend’s future. This girl, this Miss Redmond, had a pretty, well-bred face, and looked as if she had no nonsense about her; she rode well (if George was to be believed) and played tennis, and was a fair musician, and would possibly be an acquisition to the station; but what a loss George would be to the mess! He was a capital rider, could tell a good story, and sing a good song, and was quite the most brilliant polo player in the province. Now all that would be at an end! He would only care for driving his wife about in a little pony-cart, and subsequently dining _tête-à-tête_ on a leg of mutton, and custard pudding--_ugh!_ George would sink into domestic limbo “_avec la fatalité d’une pierre qui tombe_.” Mangobad was a typical up country station, sequestered and self-contained. Besides the Royal Musketeers, there was a native infantry regiment, a chaplain, a judge, a collector, several doctors, several engineers, a few indigo planters in from the district, and now and then a great man encamped in the mango tope, with his imposing transport of camels, elephants, and carriage horses.