He had no ear at all for music,
and could just distinguish the quickstep of his regiment from
'God save the Queen.' In fact, when he paid any attention at all to
music (and this was rare), it gave him no sensation beyond a vague
discomfort.

'It comes from the Assembly Room, sir, at the back of the Court.'

'Ah! yes, I remember the old Assembly Room. Some one is giving a
ball to-night?'

The waiter smiled indulgently. 'Oh no, sir! It's Miss Wallas's
dancing-class breaking up--that's all.'

'Breaking up?' echoed the colonel, whose mind was sometimes a trifle
slow in the uptake.

'She rents the room alternate Fridays, sir, and usually gives 'em a
little treat just before Christmas. I don't know,' pursued the
waiter, meditatively laying two fingers wide on his chin, 'as many
people would call it a treat. But the little 'uns likes dressing up
in their evening frocks, and the buns and lemonade is well enough
for their time of life. There used to be a fiddle too, as well as
the piano; but the class hev fallen off considerable of late.
The management don't like it too well. But there's a notion 'twould
be unfeelin' to stop it. She's been carrying it on all these years,
and her aunt before her. But if it annoys you, sir, I can say a word
at the office and get it stopped.'

'Heaven forbid!' said the colonel. But the music made him
uncomfortable, nevertheless. It broke off, and started again upon a
waltz tune. After the waltz came a mazurka, and after the mazurka
another set of quadrilles. And still, as he sipped his claret, the
successive tunes wove themselves into old memories haunting the
coffee-room--ghostly memories! Yet he had no will to escape them.
Outside he could see the crowd jostling to and fro on the opposite
pavement. The lights within a chemist's shop, shining through
bottles of coloured water in its window, threw splashes of colour--
green, crimson, orange--on the eager faces as they went by.
Colonel Baigent rose half impatiently, drew down the blind, and,
returning to his chair, sat alone with the ghosts.

The waiter brought dessert--a plateful of walnuts and dried figs.
He cracked a walnut and peeled it slowly, still busy with his
thoughts. For a while these thoughts were all in a far past; but
by-and-by a stray thread carried him down to the year 'fifty-seven--
and snapped suddenly. His thoughts always broke off suddenly at the
year 'fifty-seven--the Mutiny year. In that year he