"I was thought too old to command a brigade in the field, Quentin," said Lord Rohallion, shaking the hand of his young friend, at least for the sixth time; "so the Duke of York kindly sent me to this quiet place. If the flat-bottomed boats ever leave Boulogne, they will find me, however, at my post; and, egad! I hope to show them there is life in the old dog yet!" Conyers, the aide, who no doubt usually acted as esquire to la belle Flora, was considerably put out--disgusted, in fact--when he found her completely appropriated by another; while he was compelled to offer his arm to the buxom wife of an adjutant of a Veteran battalion. "Flora!" "Quentin!" They had no other words for each other, even in whispers, as they went mechanically to the dining-room, where all the cold formality of a grand state dinner was to be enacted and endured. A strange throbbing thrill ran through Quentin's heart, as memory went back to that last meeting in the sycamore avenue, and _the last kiss_ given there, as he seemed with the touch of her hand to take up the long-dropped link of a life that had passed away--his boyish life of joy and love at Rohallion--long dropped, but never forgotten! They were young, but, strange to say, in their instance, separation for a time, instead of cooling, strengthened their mutual regard; and when Flora spoke, the old familiar sound of her soft and beloved voice made the tender link complete. She drew off her glove and smilingly held up a little white hand. There was but one ring on it--the diamond gift of Madame de Ribeaupierre, sent at a time when Quentin had no other gift to send; and the curious history of it afforded them ample conversation during dinner. As for Eugene, who sat opposite, he seemed immensely consoled, under his unhappy circumstances, by a blue-eyed and fair ringleted daughter of the Commissary General from Newport, that young lady's patriotic animosity to France seeming in no way to extend to a handsome young fellow in the green coat lapelled with white of the 24th Chasseurs à Cheval; so thus the daughter of "la perfide Albion" had it all her own way. Then the old General and Madame de Ribeaupierre were, as Eugene phrased it in the French camp style, "like a couple of _fourbisseurs_," they sat with their powdered heads so close together; but they were deep in recollections of the old court of the Bourbons, of the Scoto-French alliance, of the days of the monarchy, all of which Eugene was wont to stigmatize as "the rubbish of the world before the flood," for he was one of those young men who wisely, perhaps, don't see much use in looking back at any time.