r her novel and tea. Wherever
the Chevalier went he was welcome, and whenever he came away a smell of
hot brandy-and-water lingered behind him.

The Butcher Boy--not the worst horse in Sir Francis's stable--was
appropriated to Captain Strong's express use; and the old Campaigner
saddled him or brought him home at all hours of the day or night,
and drove or rode him up and down the country. Where there was a
public-house with a good tap of beer--where there was a tenant with a
pretty daughter who played on the piano--to Chatteris, to the play, or
the barracks--to Baymouth, if any fun was on foot there; to the rural
fairs or races, the Chevalier and his brown horse made their way
continually; and this worthy gentleman lived at free quarters in a
friendly country. The Butcher Boy soon took Pen and the Chevalier to
Baymouth. The latter was as familiar with the hotel and landlord there
as with every other inn round about; and having been accommodated with a
bedroom to dress, they entered the ballroom. The Chevalier was splendid.
He wore three little gold crosses in a brochette on the portly breast of
his blue coat, and looked like a foreign field-marshal.

The ball was public and all sorts of persons were admitted and
encouraged to come, young Pynsent having views upon the county and Lady
Rockminster being patroness of the ball. There was a quadrille for the
aristocracy at one end, and select benches for the people of fashion.
Towards this end the Chevalier did not care to penetrate far (as he said
he did not care for the nobs); but in the other part of the room he knew
everybody--the wine-merchants', innkeepers', tradesmen's, solicitors',
squire-farmers' daughters, their sires and brothers, and plunged about
shaking hands.

"Who is that man with the blue ribbon and the three-pointed star?" asked
Pen. A gentleman in black with ringlets and a tuft stood gazing fiercely
about him, with one hand in the arm-hole of his waistcoat and the other
holding his claque.

"By Jupiter, it's Mirobolant!" cried Strong, bursting out laughing. "Bon
jour, Chef!--Bon jour, Chevalier!"

"De la croix de Juillet, Chevalier!" said the Chef, laying his hand on
his decoration.

"By Jove, here's some more ribbon!" said Pen, amused.

A man with very black hair and whiskers, dyed evidently with the
purple of Tyre, with twinkling eyes and white eyelashes, and a thousand
wrinkles in his face, which was of a strange red colour, with two
under-vest