“Here is Scrope waiting for a cup of tea after his hard day,” he said, suddenly turning the subject and slapping Captain Scrope on his solid shoulder. “Scrope is wasting to a shadow with work, work, work.” He and Captain Scrope were enthusiastic fellow-artists and racket-players.
“Yes, it’s a fact; it’s nothing but schools and classes, and drill and drawing maps. The army is not what it was,” remarked Captain Scrope, a round-faced, portly individual with a merry countenance. “We have garrison classes, signalling classes, musketry classes; but the most odious class I have ever attended is the meat class! I never bargained for all this sort of thing when I came into the service——”
“What did you bargain for? What would you like? Do pray name it?” urged Miss Valpy.
“Well, since you ask me, a nice gentlemanly parade once a week, would, in my opinion, fulfil all requirements.”
“How moderate!” she exclaimed sarcastically. “Has any one been to see poor Sir Gloster? It must be so dull for him sitting all day with his eyes bandaged.”
“Yes, I looked in yesterday, he was quite cheery and chatty.”
“Nonsense! What did he talk about?”
“Well—a—chiefly himself.”
“Rather a dry topic,” muttered Jervis, sotto-voce.
Captain Scrope laughed.