Mulberry Cottage was very comfortable inside, full of mid-Victorian furniture and ornaments that suited its owner, who, Sylvia now perceived by the orange lamplight, was even fatter than she had seemed at first. Her hair, worn in a chignon, was black, her face was rosy and large, almost monumental, with a plinth of chins. The general so much enjoyed having a fresh audience for his tales, and sat so long over the whisky, that Mrs. Gainsborough became worried. "Bob, you ought to go. You know I don't like to argue before strangers, but your sister will be getting anxious. Miss Dashwood's quite alone," she explained to her guests. "I wonder if you'd mind walking back with him?" she whispered to Sylvia. "He lives in Redcliffe Gardens. That's close to you, isn't it?" "If we can have music all the way, by gad! of course," said the general, standing up so straight that Sylvia was afraid he would bump his head on the ceiling. "Now, Bob dear, don't get too excited and do keep your muffler well wrapped round your throat." The general insisted on having one more glass for the sake of old times, and there was a short delay in the garden, because he stuck his cane fast in the ground to show the size of the mulberry-trees when he planted them, but ultimately they said good night to Mrs. Gainsborough, upon whom Sylvia promised to call next day, and set out for Redcliffe Gardens to the sound of guitars. General Dashwood turned round from time to time to shake his cane at passers-by that presumed to stare at the unusual sight of an old gentleman, respectable in his dress and demeanor, escorted down Fulham Road by two musicians. "Do you see anything so damned odd in our appearance?" he asked Sylvia. "Nothing at all," she assured him. "Sensible gal! I've a very good mind to knock down the next scoundrel who stares at us." Presently the general, on whom the fresh air was having an effect, took Sylvia's arm and grew confidential. "Go on playing," he commanded Jack Airdale. "I'm only talking business. The fact is," he said to Sylvia, "I'm worried about Polly. Hope I shall live another twenty years, but fact is, my dear, I've never really got over that wound of mine at Balaclava. Damme! I've never been the same man since." Sylvia wondered what he could have been before. "Naturally she's well provided for. Bob Dashwood always knew how to treat a woman. No wife, no children, you understand me? But it's the loneliness. She ought to have somebody with her. She's a wonderful woman, and she was a handsome gal. Damme! she's still handsome--what? Fifty-five you know. By gad, yes. And I'm seventy. But it's the loneliness. Ah, dear, if the gods had been kind; but then she'd have probably been married by now." The general blew his nose, sighed, and shook his head. Sylvia asked tenderly how long the daughter had lived.