ields of the highest heavens?

Frock-coated and belted, he passes into church or elsewhere behind his
Lord, like an aerolite from some distant universe, trailing cloudy
visions of that young lady's Paradise of bright lights and music,
champagne, mayonnaise, and "just-one-more-turn," which is situated
behind the flagstaff on the hill.

The tail-coat, with gold buttons, velvet cuffs, and light blue silk
lining, is quite a demi-official, small-and-early arrangement. It is
compatible with a patronising and somewhat superb flirtation in the
verandah; nay, even under the pine-tree beyond the _Gurkha_ sentinel,
whence many-twinkling Jakko may be admired, it is compatible with a
certain shadow of human sympathy and weakness. An A.D.C. in tail-coat
and gold buttons is no longer a star; he is only a fire-balloon;
though he may twinkle in heaven, he can descend to earth. But in the
quiet disguises of private life he is the mere stick of a rocket. He
is quite of the earth. This scheme of clothing is compatible with the
tenderest offices of gaming or love--offices of which there shall be
no recollection on the re-assumption of uniform and on re-apotheosis.
An A.D.C. in plain clothes has been known to lay the long odds at
whist, and to qualify, very nearly, for a co-respondentship.

In addition to furnishing rooms in his own person, an A.D.C. is
sometimes required to copy my Lord's letters on mail-day, and, in due
subordination to the Military Secretary, to superintend the stables,
kitchen, or Invitation Department.

After performing these high functions, it is hard if an A.D.C. should
ever have to revert to the buffooneries of the parade-ground or the
vulgar intimacies of a mess. It is hard that one who has for five
years been identified with the Empire should ever again come to be
regarded as "Jones of the 10th," and spoken of as "Punch" or "Bobby"
by old boon companions. How can a man who has been behind the curtain,
and who has seen _la premiere danseuse_ of the Empire practising her
steps before the manager Strachey, in familiar chaff and talk with the
Council ballet, while the little scene-painter and Press Commissioner
stood aside with cocked ears, and the privileged violoncellist made
his careless jests--how, I say, can one who has thus been above the
clouds on Olympus ever associate with the gaping, chattering,
irresponsible herd below?

It is well that our Ganymede should pass away from heaven into
temporary eclipse;