n he desired in a cordial, polite way. Moreover he
added an invitation. "Your name, Captain Plessy, is well known to me
as to all on both sides who have served in this campaign and to many
more who have not. I beg that you and your officers will favour me
with your company at dinner."

Captain Plessy accepted the invitation and was pleased to deprecate
the Lieutenant's high opinion of his merits. But his achievement none
the less had been of a redoubtable character. He had broken through
the lines about Metz and had ridden across France into Paris without
a single companion. In the sorties from that beleaguered town he had
successively distinguished himself by his fearless audacity. His name
and reputation had travelled far as Lieutenant Faversham was that
evening to learn. But Captain Plessy, for the moment, was all for
making little of his renown.

"Such small exploits should be expected from a soldier. One brave man
may say that to another,--is it not so?--and still not be thought
to be angling for praise," and Captain Plessy went up the steps,
wondering who it was that had drawn the long sharp breath of suspense,
and uttered the long sigh of immense relief. The landlord or
Lieutenant Faversham? Captain Plessy had not been in the cellar at
the time when the landlord had seemed to hear the chatter of a man's
teeth.

The dinner was not a pronounced success, in spite of Faversham's
avoidance of any awkward topic. They sat at the long table in the big,
desolate and shabby room, lighted only by a couple of tallow candles
set up in their candlesticks upon the cloth. And the two junior
officers maintained an air of chilly reserve and seldom spoke except
when politeness compelled them. Faversham himself was absorbed, the
burden of entertainment fell upon Captain Plessy. He strove nobly, he
told stories, he drank a health to the "Camaraderie of arms," he drew
one after the other of his companions into an interchange of words, if
not of sympathies. But the strain told on him visibly towards the end
of the dinner. His champagne glass had been constantly refilled, his
face was now a trifle overflushed, his eyes beyond nature bright, and
he loosened the belt about his waist and at a moment when Faversham
was not looking the throat buttons of his tunic. Moreover while up
till now he had deprecated any allusions to his reputation he now
began to talk of it himself; and in a particularly odious way.

"A reputation, Lieutenant,