Colonel Norcott, whose history in his native county had been for some years “a blank,” was at this period of his life somewhere about five-and-forty years of age. Five-and-forty, _bien sonnées_, nevertheless he looked younger than his age, for his figure, which (whatever else he had lost) he had been fortunate enough to keep, was slight and juvenile; his hair, though less luxuriant than of yore, was still thick and glossy; and his face, which, though always plain, even to ugliness, was singularly attractive and intelligent, had stood so well the wear and tear of years that many pronounced Fred Norcott a better-looking man in middle-age than he had been in the days when a greater amount of personal beauty might fairly have been expected of him. Frederick Norcott, an only and over-indulged son, was barely seventeen when he commenced his career in life as a light dragoon. He possessed great natural shrewdness, a good memory, and a rare gift of rendering himself agreeable to those whom he desired to please. Principles he had none. To instil any such troublesome things into his son’s youthful mind had been deemed by Fred’s father a work of supererogation. Fred would be well off, had good connections, and was rather a sharp fellow than otherwise; so the country gentleman, who knew but little of the world, and who--his own nature being both a proud and a cold one--had himself kept clear of scrapes, sent his only son forth into “life” with the injunctions to do nothing dishonourable, and never to make a fool of himself.