“Yes,” said Jarvis, with a stupid look, “I fought once with Tom Halliday at school.”

“At school!  My dear friend, you commenced young indeed,” said Digby, helping himself to another glass.  “And how did it end?”

“Oh!  Tom got the better, and so I cried enough,” said Jarvis, surlily.

“Enough!  I hope you did not flinch,” eyeing him keenly “Where were you hit?”

“He hit me all over.”

“All over!  The d—–­l!  Did you use small shot?  How did you fight?”

“With fists,” said Jarvis, yawning.

His companion, seeing how matters were, rang for his servant to put him to bed, remaining himself an hour longer to finish the bottle.

Soon after Jarvis had given Denbigh the look big with his intended vengeance, Colonel Egerton approached Emily, asking permission to present Sir Herbert Nicholson, the lieutenant-colonel of the regiment, and a gentleman who was ambitious of the honor of her acquaintance; a particular friend of his own.  Emily gracefully bowed her assent.  Soon after, turning her eyes on Denbigh, who had been speaking to her at the moment, she saw him looking intently on the two soldiers, who were making their way through the crowd to the place where she sat.  He stammered, said something she could not understand, and precipitately withdrew; and although both she and her aunt sought his figure in the gay throng that flitted around them, he was seen no more that evening.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Denbigh?” said Emily to her partner, after looking in vain to find his person in the crowd.

“Denbigh!  Denbigh!  I have known one or two of that name” replied the gentleman.  “In the army there are several.”

“Yes,” said Emily, musing, “he is in the army;” and looking up, she saw her companion reading her countenance with an expression that brought the color to her cheeks with a glow that was painful.  Sir Herbert smiled, and observed that the room was warm.  Emily acquiesced in the remark, for the first time in her life conscious of a feeling she was ashamed to have scrutinized, and glad of any excuse to hide her confusion.

“Grace Chatterton is really beautiful to-night,” whispered John Moseley to his sister Clara.  “I have a mind to ask her to dance.”

“Do, John.” replied his sister, looking with pleasure on her beautiful cousin, who, observing the movements of John as he drew near where she sat, moved her face on each side rapidly, in search of some one who was apparently not to be found.  Her breathing became sensibly quicker, and John was on the point of speaking to her as the dowager stepped in between them.  There is nothing so flattering to the vanity of a man as the discovery of emotions in a young woman excited by himself, and which the party evidently wishes to conceal; there is nothing so touching, so sure to captivate; or, if it seem to be affected, so sure to disgust.

“Now, Mr. Moseley,” cried the mother, “you shall not ask Grace to dance!  She can refuse you nothing, and she has been up the last two figures.”