“Mrs. Shortridge has never forgotten your rescuing her from under the feet of the idolatrous rabble of Lisbon.  She is still a strong friend of yours, and will be delighted to see you, as soon as she is mistress of a decent apartment.”

“Where is she now?”

“Not far from here—­but in such an abominable hole, that a lady is naturally ashamed to be caught there by any genteel acquaintance.”

“I am truly sorry to hear that she is so badly lodged.”

“Our officers,” said Shortridge, “have taken up all the best houses; and the troops being quartered here has attracted such an additional population from the country around, that I was afraid I would have to carry Mrs. Shortridge to rooms in the barracks.”

“That will never do,” said L’Isle.  “But, pray, if I am in her neighborhood, let me call on Mrs. Shortridge, and welcome her to Elvas.”

Thus urged, the commissary led the way, and soon reached his lodgings.  They found the lady in a room of some size, but dark, dirty, and offensive enough to eye and nose to disgust her with Elvas and drive her back to Lisbon, without unpacking the numerous trunks, baskets, band-boxes, and portable furniture which lumbered the room.  These her man-servant was arranging, under her direction, while she was good-humoredly trying to pacify her maid, who, with tears in her eyes, was protesting that she could not sleep another night in that coal-hole, into which the people of the house had thrust her, and which they would persist in calling a chamber.

Mrs. Shortridge, a plump and pretty woman of eight-and-twenty, was a good deal fluttered at seeing such a visitor at such a time.  She declared “that she did not know whether she was more delighted or ashamed to see Major—­I beg your pardon—­Colonel L’Isle, in such a place; we, who have been accustomed to a suite of genteel apartments wherever we went.”

L’Isle cast his eye around the forlorn and dismal walls.  “Let me beg you, Colonel L’Isle, to be conveniently near-sighted during your visit.  I would not, for the world, have our present domicil, and our household arrangements, minutely inspected by your critical eye.”

Without minding her protest, he completed a deliberate survey; then said, suddenly, “Why, Shortridge, how could you think of shutting up a lady in such a dungeon?  If Mrs. Shortridge were not the best-tempered woman in the world, it would cause a domestic rebellion, and we would soon see her posting back to Lisbon, and London, perhaps, without leave or license.  Do you forget how she yearns after the two little boys she left at home, that you venture to aggravate so her regrets at leaving England?”

“How can I help it?” said Shortridge, looking much out of countenance; “I have been into a dozen houses, and these rooms are the largest and least comfortless I can find.”

“I would pitch my tent in the praca, and pass the winter in it,” said L’Isle, “sooner than share with these people the pig-sties they call their houses.”