'looking here,' and poring over the lines beside a bloomy cheek. He was
petulantly whipped on the arm with her glove, and pouted at. And it was
then--and then only or chiefly through Nataly's recent allusion--that the
man of honour had his quakings in view of the quagmire, where he was
planted on an exceedingly narrow causeway, not of the firmest. For she
was a pretty little woman, one of the prize gifts of the present
education of women to the men who are for having them quiescent domestic
patterns; and her artificial ingenuousness or candid frivolities came to
her by nature to kindle the nature of the gentleman on the other bank of
the stream, and witch him to the plunge, so greatly mutually regretted
after taken: an old duet to the moon.

Dartrey escaped to the Club, where he had a friend. The friend was
Colonel Sudley, one of the modern studious officers, not in good
esteem with the authorities. He had not forgiven Dartrey for the
intemperateness which cut off a brilliant soldier from the service.
He was reduced to acknowledge, however, that there was a sparkling
defence for him to reply with, in the shape of a fortune gained and
where we have a Society forcing us to live up to an expensive level,
very trying to a soldier's income, a fortune gained will offer excuses
for misconduct short of disloyal or illegal. They talked of the state of
the Army: we are moving. True, and at the last Review, the 'march past'
was performed before a mounted generalissimo profoundly asleep, head on
breast. Our English military 'moving' may now be likened to Somnolency
on Horseback. 'Oh, come, no rancour,' said the colonel; 'you know he's a
kind old boy at heart; nowhere a more affectionate man alive!'

'So the sycophants are sure of posts!'

'Come, I say! He's devoted to the Service.'