“Nothing of this kind was there at all, Dinah! Withering had a friend with him, a very distinguished soldier, who had seen much Indian service, and entered with a most cordial warmth into poor George's case. He knew it,—as all India knows it, by report,—and frankly told us where our chief difficulties lay, and the important things we were neglecting.”
“How generous! of a perfect stranger too!” said she, with a scarcely detectable tone of scorn.
“Not—so to say—an utter stranger, for George was known to him by reputation and character.”
“And who is, I suppose I am to say, your friend, Peter?”
“Captain or Major Stapylton, of the Regent's Hussars?”
“Oh! I know him,—or, rather, I know of him.”
“What and how, Dinah? I am very curious to hear this.”
“Simply, that while young Conyers was at the cottage he showed me a letter from that gentleman, asking him in the Admiral's name, to Cobham, and containing, at the same time, a running criticism on the house and his guests far more flippant than creditable.”
“Men do these things every day, Dinah, and there is no harm in it.”
“That all depends upon whom the man is. The volatile gayety of a high-spirited nature, eager for effect and fond of a sensation, will lead to many an indiscretion; but very different from this is the well-weighed sarcasm of a more serious mind, who not only shots his gun home, but takes time to sight ere he fires it. I hear that Captain Stapylton is a grand, cold, thoughtful man, of five or six-and-thirty. Is that so?”