week ago. "Put the
Major's things in twenty-three, that's his room," John said, exhibiting
not the least surprise. "Roast fowl for your dinner, I suppose. You
ain't got married? They said you was married--the Scotch surgeon of
yours was here. No, it was Captain Humby of the thirty-third, as was
quartered with the --th in Injee. Like any warm water? What do you come
in a chay for--ain't the coach good enough?" And with this, the
faithful waiter, who knew and remembered every officer who used the
house, and with whom ten years were but as yesterday, led the way up to
Dobbin's old room, where stood the great moreen bed, and the shabby
carpet, a thought more dingy, and all the old black furniture covered
with faded chintz, just as the Major recollected them in his youth.

He remembered George pacing up and down the room, and biting his nails,
and swearing that the Governor must come round, and that if he didn't,
he didn't care a straw, on the day before he was married. He could
fancy him walking in, banging the door of Dobbin's room, and his own
hard by--

"You ain't got young," John said, calmly surveying his friend of former
days.

Dobbin laughed. "Ten years and a fever don't make a man young, John,"
he said. "It is you that are always young--no, you are always old."

"What became of Captain Osborne's widow?" John said. "Fine young
fellow that. Lord, how he used to spend his money. He never came back
after that day he was marched from here. He owes me three pound at
this minute. Look here, I have it in my book. 'April 10, 1815,
Captain Osborne: '3 pounds.' I wonder whether his father would pay
me," and so saying, John of the Slaughters' pulled out the very morocco
pocket-book in which he had noted his loan to the Captain, upon a
greasy faded page still extant, with many other scrawled memoranda
regarding the bygone frequenters of the house.

Having inducted his customer into the room, John retired with perfect
calmness; and Major Dobbin, not without a blush and a grin at his own
absurdity, chose out of his kit the very smartest and most becoming
civil costume he possessed, and laughed at his own tanned face and grey
hair, as he surveyed them in the dreary little toilet-glass on the
dressing-table.

"I'm glad old John didn't forget me," he thought. "She'll know me, too,
I hope." And he sallied out of the inn, bending his steps once more in
the direction of Brompton.

Every minute incident of his last