“I am perfectly sure, for she always gave them to me to read.”
“Well!” cried he, boldly, as he stood up, and threw his head haughtily back, “the fellow who led Calvert’s Horse—that was the name my irregulars were known by—might have won distinction enough to be quoted by a petty Bengal civil servant. The Queen will possibly make amends for this gentleman’s forgetfulness.”
“You were in all this dreadful campaign, then?” asked she eagerly.
“Through the whole of it. Held an independent command; got four times wounded: this was the last.” And he laid bare a fearful cicatrice that almost surrounded his right arm above the wrist.
“Refused the Bath.”
“Refused it?”
“Why not? What object is it to me to be Sir Harry? Besides, a man who holds opinions such as mine, should accept no court favours. Colonel Calvert is a sufficient title.”
“And you are a colonel already?”
“I was a major-general a month ago—local rank, of course. But why am I led to talk of these things? May I see the girls? Will they like to see me?”
“For that I can answer. But are your minutes not counted? These despatches?”