s. He has a wife and no end of a
bow-window of his own. Can any one of us ride round him--chalkstones and
all? I can't, and I think I can shove a crock along a bit.

CAPT. G. Some men are different. I haven't any nerve. Lord help me, I
haven't the nerve! I've taken up a hole and a half to get my knees well
under the wallets. I can't help it. I'm so afraid of anything happening
to me. On my soul, I ought to be broke in front of the squadron, for
cowardice.

CAPT. M. Ugly word, that. I should never have the courage to own up.

CAPT. G. I meant to lie about my reasons when I began, but--I've got out
of the habit of lying to you, old man. Jack, you won't?--But I know you
won't.

CAPT. M. Of course not. (Half aloud.) The Pinks are paying dearly for
their Pride.

CAPT. G. Eb! What-at?

CAPT. M. Don't you know? The men have called Mrs. Gadsby the Pride of
the Pink Hussars ever since she came to us.

CAPT. G. 'Tisn't her fault. Don't think that. It's all mine.

CAPT. M. What does she say?

CAPT. G. I haven't exactly put it before her. She's the best little
woman in the world, Jack, and all that--but she wouldn't counsel a man
to stick to his calling if it came between him and her. At least, I
think--

CAPT. M. Never mind. Don't tell her what you told me. Go on the Peerage
and Landed-Gentry tack.

CAPT. G. She'd see through it. She's five times cleverer than I am.

CAPT. M. (Aside.) Then she'll accept the sacrifice and think a little
bit worse of him for the rest of her days.

CAPT. G. (Absently.) I say, do you despise me?

CAPT. M. 'Queer way of putting it. Have you ever been asked that
question? Think a minute. What answer used you to give?

CAPT. G. So bad as that? I'm not entitled to expect anything more, but
it's a bit hard when one's best friend turns round and--

CAPT. M. So! have found But you will have consolations--Bailiffs and
Drains and Liquid Manure and the Primrose League, and, perhaps, if
you're lucky, the Colonelcy of a Yeomanry Cav-al-ry Regiment--all
uniform and no riding, I believe. How old are you?

CAPT. G. Thirty-three. I know it's--

CAPT. M. At forty you'll be a fool of a J. P. landlord. At fifty you'll
own a bath-chair, and The Brigadier, if he takes after you, will be
fluttering the dovecotes of--what's the particular dunghill you're going
to? Also, Mrs. Gadsby will be fat.

CAPT. G. (Limply.) This is rather more than a joke.

CAPT. M. D'you think so? Isn't cutting the Service