wheels in Piccadilly recall the rush and ripple of the Solway charging
up its tawny sands with the white horses all abreast in a spring-tide?

Perhaps he is wishing he was an officer with no kit to keep in order,
no fatigue-duty to undergo, sitting merrily down to as good a dinner
as luxury can provide, or a guest, of whom he has seen several pass
his post in starched white neckcloths and trim evening clothes.
Perhaps he would not change with any of these, after all, when he
reflects on his own personal advantages, his social standing amongst
his comrades, his keen appreciation and large consumption of beer and
tobacco, with the innumerable conquests he makes amongst maids and
matrons in the middle and lower ranks of life. Such considerations,
however, impress themselves not the least upon his outward visage. A
statue could not look more imperturbable, and he turns his head but
very slightly, with supreme indifference, when peals of laughter,
more joyous than common, are wafted through the open windows of the
mess-room, where some of our friends have fairly embarked on that tide
of good-humour and hilarity which sets in with the second glass of
champagne.

It is a full mess; the colonel himself sits at dinner, with two or
three friends, old brothers-in-arms, whose soldier-like bearing and
manly faces betray their antecedents, though they may not have worn
a uniform for months. A lately-joined cornet looks at these with a
reverence that I am afraid could be extorted from him by no other
institution on earth. The adjutant and riding-master, making
holiday, are both present--"to the front," as they call it, enjoying
exceedingly the jests and waggeries of their younger comrades. The
orderly-officer, conspicuous by his belt, sits at one end of the long
table. Lord Bearwarden occupies the other, supported on either side by
his two guests, Tom Ryfe and Dick Stanmore. It is the night of Mrs.
Stanmore's ball, and these last-named gentlemen are going there, with
feelings how different, yet with the same object. Dick is full of
confidence, elated and supremely happy. His entertainer experiences a
quiet comfort and _bien-etre_ stealing over him, to which he has long
been a stranger, while Tom Ryfe with every mouthful swallows down some
emotion of jealousy, humiliation, or mistrust. Nevertheless, he is in
the highest spirits of the three.

"I tell you nothing can touch him, my lord, when hounds run," says he,
still harping on th