its absurd arms straight out in a gay little ineffectual heathen protest.  There was another more embarrassing table; it had a coarse cloth and was garnished with a loaf and butter-dish, a plate of plantains and a tin of marmalade, knives and teacups for a meal evidently impending.  It was atrociously, sordidly intimate, with its core in Harris, who when Miss Filbert had well gone from the room looked up.  “If you’re here on private business,” he said to Lindsay, fixing his eyes, however, on a point awkwardly to the left of him, “maybe you ain’t aware that the Ensign”—­he threw his head back in the direction of the next room—­“is the person to apply to.  She’s in command here.  Captain Filbert’s only under her.”

“Indeed?” said Lindsay.  “Thanks.”

“It ain’t like it is in the Queen’s army,” Harris volunteered, still searching Lindsay’s vicinity for a point upon which his eye could permanently rest, “where, if you remember, ensigns are the smallest officer we have.”

“The commission is, I think, abolished,” replied Lindsay, trying to govern a deep and irritated frown.

“Maybe so.  This Army don’t pretend to pattern very close on the other—­not in discipline, anyhow,” said Mr. Harris with ambiguity.  “But you’ll find Ensign Sand very willing to do anything she can for you.  She’s a hard-working officer.”

A sharp wail smote the air from a point suspiciously close to the lath and canvas partition on the other side, followed by hasty hushings and steps in the opposite direction.  It enabled Lindsay to observe that Mr. Sand seemed at present to be sufficiently engaged, at which Mr. Harris shifted one heavy limb over the other, and lapsed into silence, looking sternly at an advertisement.  The air was full of their mutual annoyance, although Duff tried to feel amused.  They were raging as primitively, under the red flannel shirt and the tan-coloured waistcoat with white silk spots, as two cave-men on an Early British coast; their only sophistication lay in Harris’s newspaper and Lindsay’s idea that he ought to find this person humourous.  Then Laura came back and resolved the situation.

“Here it is,” she said, handing the volume to Mr. Harris; “we have all enjoyed it.  Thank you very much.”  There was in it the oddest mixture of the supreme feminine and the superior officer.  Harris, as he took the book, had no alternative.

“Good-evening, then, Captain,” said he, and went stumbling at the door.

“Mr. Harris,” said Laura, equably, “found salvation about a month ago.  He is a very steady young man—­foreman in one of the carriage works here.  He is now struggling with the tobacco habit, and he often drops in in the evening.”

“He seems to be a—­a member of the corps,” said Lindsay.

“He would be, only for the carriage works.  He says he doesn’t find himself strong enough in grace to give up his situation yet.  But he wears the uniform at the meetings to show his sympathy, and the Ensign doesn’t think there’s any objection.”