t to my Portuguese friends,"
said Lady Mabel. "But when and where did you dine?"

"Dine?" said L'Isle, hesitating, then recollecting his luncheon;
"about two o'clock, in Badajoz."

"A Spanish dinner, I'll warrant, at a Spaniard's house!" she
exclaimed, throwing up her hands.

"You must be faint with hunger. Why," she added, taking up a light,
and holding it close to him, "you do look pale and famished; as if you
had dined like a Portuguese beggar's brat,--on a crust, rubbed over
with a _sardinha_, to give it a flavor. I cannot let you go away in
this condition. If you starve yourself so, you will degenerate from a
beef-eating red-coat, into a rationless Spanish soldier."

"There is no danger of that," L'Isle answered. "But how do you happen
to have a supper ready at this hour?"

"It shows what a slave of habit Moodie is. Because he has a supper got
for papa and his friends every night, he could not omit it; though
papa is far away, and he knows that I never touch it. But here he
comes to announce it. For once it is well timed, and you must do it
justice, unless you would make both Moodie and myself your enemies for
life."

"Supper is ready, my lady," said Moodie. Then grumbled aside to her,
"If you wait awhile longer it will serve for breakfast."

"Pray send Jenny to me; and then, Moodie, I will not keep you up
longer," said Lady Mabel, for she was anxious to get rid of the old
marplot.

They went into the next room to supper, and she seated L'Isle sociably
beside her. It was truly a tempting little supper party, without one
too many at table. Lady Mabel had now been long enough in the army to
feel at home there. Why should she not, like any of her comrades,
bring home a friend to sup with her? Especially when that friend is
the pleasantest fellow in the brigade? Having or affecting an
appetite, she set the example to L'Isle, and urged him to make up for
the meagre fare of the day. The table looked as if Lord Strathern and
three or four of his friends had been expected to take their seats at
it; and when she bid the footman hand wine to Colonel L'Isle, he
promptly placed three decanters on the table.

"William mistakes me for Colonel Bradshawe," said L'Isle smiling, as
he glanced at them.

"That is Moodie's doing," said she. "He provides liberally, one bottle
for you, and two for himself, I suppose."

Jenny Aiken now came into the room, very neatly dressed, and,
evidently not at all surprised at her mistr