had won his
Victoria Cross and, along with it, a curious tone in his voice, an
inexpressible gentleness with all women and children, certain
ineradicable lines in his face (hidden though they were by his
drooping moustache and absurd old-fashioned whiskers); also a certain
very grave simplicity when addressing the Almighty in his prayers.
But he never thought of the year 'fifty-seven if he could help it.
And as a spider, its thread snapping, drops upon the floor, so
Colonel Baigent fell to earth out of his dreaming.

With a sudden impulse of his hands against the table's edge, he
thrust back the chair and stood erect. His bottle of claret was all
but empty, and he bethought him that he had left his cigar-case
upstairs. His bedroom lay on the farther side of the courtyard and
on his way to it he passed the tall windows of the Assembly Room
close enough to fling a glance inside.

The dancers were all children--little girls of all ages from eight to
fourteen, in pretty frocks of muslin--pink, blue, and white; with a
sprinkling of awkward boys in various fashion of evening dress.
On his way back, having lit his cigar, he paused for a longer look.
The piano was tinkling energetically, the company dancing a polka,
and with a will. The boys were certainly an awkward lot, so the
Colonel decided, and forthwith remembered his own first pair of white
kid gloves and the horrible self-consciousness he had indued with
them. He went back to the room where the waiter had laid his coffee.

The polka, as it proved, was the last dance on the programme; for the
colonel had scarcely settled himself again before the piano strummed
out 'God save the Queen'--which, as has been said, was one of the
tunes he knew. He stood erect, alone in the empty room, and so
waited gravely for the last bar. A rush of feet followed; a pause
for robing; then childish voices in the courtyard wishing each other
'Good-night!' and 'A merry Christmas!' Then a very long pause, and
the colonel supposed that all the young guests were gone.

But they were not all gone; for as he resumed his seat, and reached
out a hand for his case, to choose another cigar, he happened to
throw a glance towards the doorway. And there, in the shadow of a
heavy curtain draping it, stood a little girl.

She might have passed for a picture of Red Riding-Hood; for she wore
a small scarlet cloak over her muslin frock, and the hood of it had
been pulled forward and covered all bu