There was another explosion of what Emily would have called “mewrwriment,” at this, for it was well-known to be one of the gallant dragoon’s most humorous efforts.  A somewhat protracted silence followed.  Footles, however, took it in both hands, and broke it with no greater emotion than he would have shown if he had been called upon to charge a whole squadron of Leicestershire Bullfinches, or to command a Lord Mayor’s escort on the 9th of November.  Dear old footles!  He wasn’t clever, no Purple Dragoon could be, but he wasn’t the biggest fool in the Service, like Emily, and all the rest of them.  Still he loved another’s.

In fact, whenever a Purple Dragoon fell in love, the object of his affections immediately pretended to love someone else.  Hard lines, but soldiers were born to suffer.  It is so easy, so true, so usual to say, “there’s another day to-morrow,” but that never helped even a Purple Dragoon to worry through to-day any the quicker.  Poor, brave, noble, drawling, manly, pipe-smoking fellows!  On this particular occasion footles uttered only one word.  It was short, and began with the fourth letter of the alphabet.  But he may be pardoned, for some of the glowing embers from his magnificent briar-wood pipe had dropped on to his regulation overalls.  The result was painful—­to footles.  All the others laughed as well as they could, with clays, meerschaums, briars, and asbestos pipes in their mouths.  And through the thick cloud of scented smoke the mess-waiter came into the room, bearing in his hand a large registered letter, and coughing violently.

CHAPTER II.

  “The mouse ran up the clock.”
      —­Nursery Rhyme.

The waiter advanced slowly to footles, and handed him the letter.  Footles took it meditatively, and turned it over in both hands.  The post-marks were illegible, and the envelope much crumpled.  “Never mind,” thought footles, to himself, “it will dry straight—­it will dry straight.”  He always thought this twice, because it was one of his favourite phrases.  At last he decided to open it.  As he broke the seal a little cry was heard, and suddenly, before even Emily had had time to say “I nev-ah!” a charming and beautifully dressed girl, of about fifteen summers, sprang lightly from the packet on to the mess-room floor, and kissed her pretty little hand to the astonished Dragoons.

“You’re footles,” she said, skipping up to the thunder-stricken owner of the name.  “I know you very well.  I’m going to be your daughter, and you’re going to marry my mother.  Oh, it’s all right,” she continued, as she observed footles press his right hand convulsively to the precise spot on his gorgeous mess-waistcoat under which he imagined his heart to be situated, “it’s all right.  Pa’s going to be comfortably killed, and put out of the way, and then you’ll marry darling Mamma.