I had heard tolerably often from Livingstone during my absence.  His letters were very amusing, containing all sorts of news, and remarks on men and manners.  They would have pleased me more if they had not indicated a vein of sarcasm deepening into cynicism.

I stand very much alone in this world, and had few family visits to detain me; so, on the morning after my arrival, I went down to the Knightsbridge barracks, where Guy’s regiment happened to be quartered.

It was a field-day, his servant said, and his master was out with his troop; but he expected him in very shortly.  Captain Forrester was waiting breakfast for him up stairs.

As I entered the room, its occupant turned his head languidly on the sofa-cushion which supported it; but when he saw it was a stranger, sat up, and, on hearing my name, actually rose and came toward me.

“Livingstone will be charmed to find you here, Mr. Hammond,” he said, in a voice that, though slightly affected and trainante, was very musical.  “I don’t know if he ever mentioned Charley Forrester to you, who must do the honors of the barrack-room in his absence?”

I had heard of him very often; and, though my expectations as to his personal appearance had been raised, I own the first glance did not disappoint them.  He was about three-and-twenty then, rather tall, but very slightly built; his eyes long, sleepy, of a violet blue; features small and delicately cut, with a complexion so soft and bright that his silky, chestnut mustache hardly saved the face from effeminacy; his hands and feet would have satisfied the Pacha of Tebelen at once as to his purity of race; indeed, though Charley was not disposed to undervalue any of his own bodily advantages, I imagine he considered his extremities as his strong point.  His manner was very fascinating, and, with women, had a sort of caress in it which is hard to describe, though even with them he seldom excited himself much, preferring, consistently, the passive to the active part in the conversation.  Indeed, his golden rule was the Arabic maxim, Agitel lil Shaitan—­Hurry is the Devil’s—­so, in the flirtations which were the serious business of his life, he always let his fish hook themselves, just exerting himself enough to play them afterward.

In ten minutes we were very good friends, talking pleasantly of all sorts of things, though Forrester had resumed his recumbent posture, and I could not help fearing it was only a strong effort of politeness or sense of duty which enabled him always to answer at the right time.

Before long we heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs and the rattle of steel scabbards, and I looked out at the squadrons defiling into the barrack-yard.  My eye fell upon Livingstone at once:  it was not difficult to distinguish him, for few, if any, among those troopers, picked from the flower of all the counties north of the Humber, could compare with him for length of limb and breadth of shoulder.  I felt proud of him, as the hero of my boyhood, looking at him there, on his great black charger, square and steadfast as the keep of a castle.