The room was full of men. They all saw, and they all heard. No one spoke, but every one looked at Lucian. He knew that the drunken man had voiced the prevalent sentiment. He looked round him, without reproach, without defiance, and walked quietly from the room and the house. He had suddenly realised the true complexion of things. Next morning, as he sat over a late breakfast in his rooms, he was informed that a young gentleman who would give no name desired earnestly to see him. He was feeling somewhat bored that morning, and he bade his man show the unknown one in. He looked up from his coffee to behold a very young gentleman upon whom the word subaltern was written in very large letters, whose youthful face was very grim and earnest, and who was obviously a young man with a mission. He pulled himself up in stiff fashion as the door closed upon him, and Lucian observed that one hand evidently grasped something which was concealed behind his back. ‘Mr. Lucian Damerel?’ the young gentleman said, with polite interrogation. Lucian bowed and looked equally interrogative. His visitor glowered upon him. ‘I have come to tell you that you are a damned scoundrel, Mr. Lucian Damerel,’ he said, ‘and to thrash you within an inch of your beastly life!’ Lucian stared, smiled, and rose lazily from his seat. The visitor displayed a cutting-whip, brandished it, and advanced as seriously as if he were on parade. Lucian met him, seized the cutting-whip in one hand and his assailant’s collar in the other, disarmed him, shook him, and threw him lightly into an easy-chair, where he lay gasping and surprised. Lucian hung the cutting-whip on the wall. He looked at his visitor with a speculative gaze. ‘What shall I do with you, young sir?’ he said. ‘Throw you out of the window, or grill you on the fire, or merely kick you downstairs? I suppose you thought that because I happen to be what your lot call “a writin’ feller,” there wouldn’t be any spunk in me, eh?’ The visitor was placed in a strange predicament. He had expected the sweet savour of groans and tears from a muscleless, flabby ink-and-parchment thing: this man had hands which could grip like steel and iron. Moreover, he was cool--he actually sat down again and continued his breakfast. ‘I hope I didn’t squeeze your throat too much,’ said Lucian politely. ‘I have a nasty trick of forgetting that my hands are abnormally developed. If you feel shaken, help yourself to a brandy and soda, and then tell me what’s the matter.’ The youth shook his head hopelessly. ‘Y--you have insulted the Army!’ he stammered at last.