But Sloat was in one of his utterly asinine moods.  He would have been perfectly willing to give any sum he possessed for so perfect a picture as this.  He never dreamed that there were good and sufficient reasons why no man should have it.  He so loved and honored his colonel that he was ready to lay down his life for any of his household.  In laying claim to this picture he honestly believed that it was the highest proof he could give of his admiration and devotion.  A tame surrender now meant that his protestations were empty words.  “Therefore,” argued Sloat, “I must stand firm.”

“Madame,” said he, “I’d die first.”  And with that he began backing to the door.

Alarmed now, Mrs. Maynard sprang after him, and the little major leaped upon a chair, his face aglow, jolly, rubicund, beaming with bliss and triumph.  She looked up, almost wringing her hands, and turned half appealingly to the colonel, who was laughing heartily on the sofa, never dreaming Sloat could be in earnest.

“Here, I’ll give you back the frame:  I don’t want that,” said Sloat, and began fumbling at the back of the photograph.  This was too much for the ladies.  They, too, rushed to the rescue.  One of them sprang to and shut the door, the other seized and violently shook the back of his chair, and Sloat leaped to the floor, still clinging to his prize, and laughing as though he had never had so much entertainment in his life.  The long Venetian windows opened upon the piazza, and towards the nearest one he retreated, holding aloft the precious gage and waving off the attacking party with the other hand.  He was within a yard of the blinds, when they were suddenly thrown open, a tall, slender form stepped quickly in, one hand seized the uplifted wrist, the other the picture, and in far less time than it takes to tell it Mr. Jerrold had wrenched it away and, with quiet bow, restored it to its rightful owner.

“Oh, I say, now, Jerrold, that’s downright unhandsome of you!” gasped Sloat.  “I’d have been on my way home with it.”

“Shut up, you fool!” was the sharp, hissing whisper.  “Wait till I go home, if you want to talk about it.”  And, as quickly as he came, Mr. Jerrold slipped out again upon the piazza.

Of course the story was told with varied comment all over the post.  Several officers were injudicious enough to chaff the old subaltern about it, and—­he was a little sore-headed the next day, anyway—­the usually placid Sloat grew the more indignant at Jerrold.  He decided to go and upbraid him; and, as ill luck would have it, they met before noon on the steps of the club-room.

“I want to say to you, Mr. Jerrold, that from an officer of your age to one of mine I think your conduct last night a piece of impertinence.”

“I had a perfect right to do what I did,” replied Jerrold, coolly.  “You were taking a most unwarrantable liberty in trying to carry off that picture.”

“How did you know what it was?  You had never seen it!”