y
anxious, expression was visible upon his good-humored countenance, and
his mouth was fast buttoning itself up for an incipient whistle, when
little Flo, a tiny spaniel of the Blenheim breed--the pet object of Miss
Julia Simpkinson's affections--bounced out from beneath a sofa, and
began to bark at--his pantaloons.

They were cleverly "built," of a light-grey mixture, a broad stripe of
the most vivid scarlet traversing each seam in a perpendicular direction
from hip to ankle--in short, the regimental costume of the Royal Bombay
Fencibles. The animal, educated in the country, had never seen such a
pair of breeches in her life--_Omne ignotum pro magnifico!_ The scarlet
streak, inflamed as it was by the reflection of the fire, seemed to act
on Flora's nerves as the same color does on those of bulls and turkeys;
she advanced at the _pas de charge_, and her vociferation, like her
amazement, was unbounded. A sound kick from the disgusted officer
changed its character, and induced a retreat at the very moment when the
mistress of the pugnacious quadruped entered to the rescue.

"Lassy me! Flo, what _is_ the matter?" cried the sympathizing lady, with
a scrutinizing glance leveled at the gentleman.

It might as well have lighted on a feather bed. His air of imperturbable
unconsciousness defied examination; and as he would not, and Flora could
not, expound, that injured individual was compelled to pocket up her
wrongs. Others of the household soon dropped in, and clustered round the
board dedicated to the most sociable of meals; the urn was paraded
"hissing hot," and the cups which "cheer, but not inebriate," steamed
redolent of hyson and pekoe; muffins and marmalade, newspapers, and
Finnan haddies, left little room for observation on the character of
Charles's warlike "turn-out." At length a look from Caroline, followed
by a smile that nearly ripened to a titter, caused him to turn abruptly
and address his neighbor. It was Miss Simpkinson, who, deeply engaged in
sipping her tea and turning over her album, seemed, like a female
Chrononotonthologos, "immersed in cogibundity of cogitation." An
interrogatory on the subject of her studies drew from her the confession
that she was at that moment employed in putting the finishing touches to
a poem inspired by the romantic shades of Bolsover. The entreaties of
the company were of course urgent. Mr. Peters, "who liked verses," was
especially persevering, and Sappho at length compliant