"Damn the military temperament!" the crammer promptly replied. Young Lechmere stared. Mr. Coyle's tone left him uncertain if he were attributing the phrase to Wingrave or uttering his own opinion, but he exclaimed: "Those were exactly his words!" "He doesn't care," said Mr. Coyle. "Perhaps not. But it isn't fair for him to abuse us fellows. I told him it's the finest temperament in the world, and that there's nothing so splendid as pluck and heroism." "Ah! there you had _him_." "I told him it was unworthy of him to abuse a gallant, a magnificent profession. I told him there's no type so fine as that of the soldier doing his duty." "That's essentially _your_ type, my dear boy." Young Lechmere blushed; he couldn't make out (and the danger was naturally unexpected to him) whether at that moment he didn't exist mainly for the recreation of his friend. But he was partly reassured by the genial way this friend continued, laying a hand on his shoulder: "Keep _at_ him that way! we may do something. I'm extremely obliged to you." Another doubt however remained unassuaged--a doubt which led him to exclaim to Mr. Coyle before they dropped the painful subject: "He _doesn't_ care! But it's awfully odd he shouldn't!" "So it is, but remember what you said this afternoon--I mean about your not advising people to make insinuations to _you_." "I believe I should knock a fellow down!" said young Lechmere. Mr. Coyle had got up; the conversation had taken place while they sat together after Mrs. Coyle's withdrawal from the dinner-table and the head of the establishment administered to his disciple, on principles that were a part of his thoroughness, a glass of excellent claret. The disciple, also on his feet, lingered an instant, not for another "go," as he would have called it, at the decanter, but to wipe his microscopic moustache with prolonged and unusual care. His companion saw he had something to bring out which required a final effort, and waited for him an instant with a hand on the knob of the door. Then as young Lechmere approached him Spencer Coyle grew conscious of an unwonted intensity in the round and ingenuous face. The boy was nervous, but he tried to behave like a man of the world. "Of course, it's between ourselves," he stammered, "and I wouldn't breathe such a word to any one who wasn't interested in poor Wingrave as you are. But do you think he funks it?" Mr. Coyle looked at him so hard for an instant that he was visibly frightened at what he had said. "Funks it! Funks what?" "Why, what we're talking about--the service." Young Lechmere gave a little gulp and added with a _naïveté_ almost pathetic to Spencer Coyle: "The dangers, you know!" "Do you mean he's thinking of his skin?" Young Lechmere's eyes expanded appealingly, and what his instructor saw in his pink face--he even thought he saw a tear--was the dread of a disappointment shocking in the degree in which the loyalty of admiration had been great.