“Improved upon it, rather,” said L’Isle, for she had not closely followed the local costume where it did not please her.  Then running on, from one lively topic to another, she amused L’Isle so successfully that he felt it to be an interruption when the footman came in to say that the coach was ready.  After depositing her guitar in state, on a pile of music, on the front seat, L’Isle at length found himself beside Lady Mabel in this venerable vehicle, long used to bear a noble burden, having belonged to a Portuguese Marquis, who on the first approach of Junot’s invading horde, had run off to Brazil, leaving his coach, his estate, his country, and perhaps his honor behind him.  Slow and dignified, as became its character, was its progress up the hill of Elvas; for one pair of the team of mules which had brought it from Lisbon, had returned to their duty in the quartermaster’s department, and their comrades, left to their own unaided efforts, found the coach almost as hard to handle as a nine-pounder.  But in the dove-like, billing and cooing humor in which L’Isle was, time flew on the wings of the carrier-pigeon, and they arrived at Mrs. Shortridge’s house too soon for him, though all the guests, but themselves, were there already.  Two or three score of Portuguese, most of them ladies, and nearly as many English officers filled the rooms.

Some of these gentlemen looked surprised at seeing L’Isle, thinking he had already left Elvas.  Lieutenant Goring, who was showing off his tall lithe person and dragoon uniform to the best advantage, beside his short and sturdy friend, Captain Hatton, seemed annoyed at L’Isle’s presence, and Hatton shared his feelings.  L’Isle stood in the way of their paying court to Lady Mabel, and Goring, at least, had reckoned on his absence.

“I had hoped,” said he, “that we were rid of the Colonel for once.  He is an abominable monopolist.”

“He is so,” said Hatton, “for Lady Mabel’s smiles belong to the brigade.”

“And the light dragoons quartered with it,” interjected Goring.  “But here he is, basking in the sunshine, and keeping us shivering in the shade, when he ought to be on the road to Alcantara.  Sir Rowland is expecting him.  Major Conway seemed quite anxious that he should be there betimes in the morning, and, doubtless, had some good reason for it.

“Why do you not give him a hint?” asked Hatton, “perhaps he has forgotten it.”

“He is your colonel, and the hint would come better from you.”

“Thank you,” said Hatton.  “But in our regiment, it is contrary to the etiquette to hint to the colonel that he is neglecting his duty.”

“But it seems,” said Goring, “that the rule does not apply to the brigade.  The major tells me that L’Isle has freely censured my lord’s remissness, and urged him to enforce more stringent discipline.”

“How did my lord take it?”

“Like a slap in the face,” answered Goring.  “At least he treated it as a great piece of presumption, and L’Isle was thoroughly angered at the rough answer he got.  Indeed, Conway thinks that there is nothing but ill blood between them.”