I found in Aurora an inexpressibly charming friend and companion; thus at times, in my heart, and before my funds waxed low, I completely forgave her for being the holder, the golden-haired usurper of all that was mine by right of inheritance. But there were other times when the old emotions of pique and anger--the old memories of wrong inflicted, and of mortifications endured by my parents and myself, blazed up within me, and made me resolve to tear myself away from London and from the silken toils that were netting round me, and vow to rejoin my regiment, which was now at winter quarters at Barentrup, in Germany. Still I hovered between Pall Mall and Piccadilly, and when we were not at some place of amusement (whither we sometimes ventured _without_ the matronage of Madame Blythe), Aurora's drawing-room was my evening resort; for after dining at White's or at the George in the Mall I always dropped in to take "a dish of tea," as the Londoners phrased it, at that little _guéridon_, or tripod table, with its oval teaboard of mahogany, its diminutive cups of eggshell china, filled with that fragrant, and then expensive beverage, the honours of which old Madame Blythe, in her hoop petticoat, black mittens, and toupee, dispensed so gracefully. So passed the time swiftly in amusements and gaiety. My exchequer I have said was waxing low. My share in the value of his Most Christian Majesty's brass guns and mortars had all vanished at Vauxhall, Ranelagh, and elsewhere, and my leave of absence was drawing to a close. The latter tidings I communicated to Aurora, and she seemed to be disturbed by them--so much so, that I felt quite pleased and flattered by her affectionate friendship. Had she wept I would have been delighted. How strange was this tie of cousinship! Here was Aurora, one of the loveliest girls in London (which, my good reader, is saying a good deal), treating me like a friend--a brother; and she was nearer and dearer to me than friend or sister could be, so far as regard and propinquity went; yet withal, she was little more than a recent acquaintance. It was perilous work, those daily visits to Piccadilly, and yet so pleasing; and so--and so the reader may begin to perceive the end of all this; but not exactly how it came about. I own that I fell in love with my beautiful cousin; so had many others--among them Shirley; and I could pardon him now.