He had been so many years in India that he found a difficulty in assuring himself that he was not "up country" and in cantonments still. Thus, if the rooms were warm, the general grumbled that there was no _punkah_ to swing over his head, the baldness of which he polished vigorously, and muttered about "tatties of iced water." He calculated everything by its value in rupees, and talked much of compounds and cantonments; of _batta_ and marching money, of _chutney_ and _chunam_, and all manner of queer things, including sepoys and _sowars_, _subadars_, _havildars_, and _jemidars_; thus the most casual remark drew forth some Indian reference. The cold of last night reminded him of what he had endured in the mountains of Affghanistan; and the dark clouds of this morning were exactly like some he had seen near Calcutta, when a sepoy was killed by his side by a stroke of lightning, which twisted up the barrel of his musket like a screw—"yes, sir, like a demmed corkscrew!" Next, the gas offended his eyes, which had been so long accustomed to the oil lamps or oil-shades of his bungalow; and then he spoke to all the servants, even respectable old Mr. Binns (who had been for forty years like Sir Nigel’s shadow) as if they had been so many _sycees_, grass-cutters, or tent-pitchers, making them start whenever he addressed them; for he seemed to bark or snap out his words and wishes at "the precious Griffs," as he termed them. On the other hand, I was bored by the provost, who, like the M.P. (a peace-at-any-price man), by no means approved of the expected war, and informed Berkeley and myself that— "Our trade—soldiering, to wit—was a deuced poor one—a speculation, a loss, and never profit to any one, individually or collectively." Berkeley smiled superciliously, eyed the provost through his glass, and blandly asked him to repeat his remark twice over, professing that he did not understand the worthy man. "If you mean that you disapprove of the intended war, my good friend," said he, "I—haw—quite agree with you, Why the deuce should I fight for the ’sick man’ at Constantinople; or for the Turks or the Tartars of the Crimea? It’s a horrid bore." Amid all this uncongenial conversation, I longed for the time when the seniors would move towards the drawing-room, from whence the sounds of music and of voices sweetly attuned were heard to issue at times; for there my star was shining—Louisa Loftus, so beautiful to look upon, and yet whom it seemed so hopeless in me to love! Lost in reverie, and full of her image, it was some time before I became aware that my distinguished brother in arms, Mr. De Warr Berkeley, was addressing me. "I beg your pardon," said I, nervously; "did you speak?" "I was remarking," he lisped, languidly, "that these good people here are—haw—very pleasant, and all that sort of thing; but have little of the—haw—the—haw——" "What?" "Oh—the _odeur de la bonne société_ about them."