Loveday did not go
on.

'Much?' she asked.

'I can't exactly say. And the strange part of it is that he never tells
us who the woman is. Nobody knows at all.'

'He will tell, of course?' said Anne, in the remote tone of a person with
whose sex such matters had no connexion whatever.

Loveday shook his head, and the tete-a-tete was put an end to by a burst
of singing from one of the sergeants, who was followed at the end of his
song by others, each giving a ditty in his turn; the singer standing up
in front of the table, stretching his chin well into the air, as though
to abstract every possible wrinkle from his throat, and then plunging
into the melody. When this was over one of the foreign hussars--the
genteel German of Miller Loveday's description, who called himself a
Hungarian, and in reality belonged to no definite country--performed at
Trumpet-major Loveday's request the series of wild motions that he
denominated his national dance, that Anne might see what it was like.
Miss Garland was the flower of the whole company; the soldiers one and
all, foreign and English, seemed to be quite charmed by her presence, as
indeed they well might be, considering how seldom they came into the
society of such as she.

Anne and her mother were just thinking of retiring to their own dwelling
when Sergeant Stanner of the --th Foot, who was recruiting at Budmouth,
began a satirical song:--

When law'-yers strive' to heal' a breach',
And par-sons prac'-tise what' they preach';
Then lit'-tle Bo-ney he'll pounce down',
And march' his men' on Lon'-don town'!

Chorus.--Rol'-li-cum ro'-rum, tol'-lol-lo'-rum,
Rol'-li-cum ro'-rum, tol'-lol-lay.

When jus'-ti-ces' hold e'qual scales',
And rogues' are on'-ly found' in jails';
Then lit'tle Bo'-ney he'll pounce down',
And march' his men' on Lon'-don town'!

Chorus.--Rol'-li-cum ro'-rum, tol'-lol-lo'-rum,
Rol'-li-cum ro'-rum, tol'-lol-lay.

When rich' men find' their wealth' a curse',
And fill' there-with' the poor' man's purse';
Then lit'-tle Bo'-ney he'll pounce down',
And march' his men' on Lon'-don town'!

Chorus.--Rol'-li-cum ro'-rum, tol'-lol-lo'-rum,
Rol'-li-cum ro'-rum, tol'-lol-lay.

Poor Stanner! In spite of his satire, he fell at the bloody battle of
Albuera a few years after this pleasantly spent summer at the Georgian
watering-place, being mortally wounded and trampled down by a French
huss