Suffice it to say that I had lost my heart to her—that I thought she knew it well, but feared or disdained to acknowledge a triumph so small as the conquest of a lieutenant of lancers among the many others she had won. So thought I, in the angry humility and jealous bitterness of my heart. For a minute I felt as one in a dream. I was sensible that my uncle had said something about changing his costume, and, suggesting some change in mine, had apologised, and left me to linger in the corridor, or in the drawing-room, as I chose; but now a personage, who had been lounging on a _fauteuil_ in the latter, intent on a volume of _Punch_, and the soles of whose glazed boots had been towards me, suddenly rose and approached, in full evening costume. He proved to be no other than Berkeley of ours, who had been in the room alone, or, at least, alone with Lady Louisa Loftus. He came slowly forward, with his sauntering air, as if the exertion of walking was a bore, and with his eyeglass retained in its place by a muscular contraction of the right eyebrow. His whole air had the "used-up" bearing of those miserable Dundrearys who affect to act as if youth, wealth, and luxury were the greatest calamities that flesh is heir to, and that life itself was a bore. "Ah, Norcliff—haw—glad to see you here, old fellow. Haw—heard you were coming. How goes it with you, and how are all at Maidstone?" "Preparing for foreign service," said I, curtly, as the tip of his gloved hand touched mine. "Horrid bore! Too late to send in one’s papers now, or, by Jove, I’d hook the service. Don’t think I was ever meant for it." "Ere long many more will be of your way of thinking," said I, coolly. Berkeley had a cold and cunning eye, which never smiled, whatever his mouth might do. His face was, nevertheless, decidedly handsome, and a thick, dark moustache concealed a form of lip which, if seen, would have indicated a thorough sensualist. His head was well shaped; but the accurate division of his well-oiled head over the centre of the caput gave him an air of intense insipidity. Mr. De Warr Berkeley never was a favourite of mine, though we had both joined the lancers on the same day, and it was with very ill-concealed annoyance I found myself compelled, with some apparent cordiality, to greet him as a brother officer and an inmate of my uncle’s mansion. "And—haw—what news from the regiment?" he resumed. "I really have no news, Berkeley," said I. "Indeed. You have got a month’s leave?" "Between returns, yes." "Is the route come?" "A strange question, when you and I are here." "Haw—yes, of course—how devilish good." "It has _not_," said I, coldly; "but we are under orders for foreign service, and may look to have our leaves cancelled by a telegram any day or hour." "The devil—really!" "Fact, though, however unpleasant it may be. So my uncle, Sir Nigel, met you at—where was it?" "Chillingham’s shooting-box, in the Highlands."