“The deuce he is; you never told me that. And is this our dinner company?”
“I was just going to explain—Oh, here's Bella!” and Miss Kellett entered, giving such a cordial greeting to the soldier that made Beecher actually astounded.
“What's his name, Kellett?” said Beecher, half languidly.
“A good name, for the matter of that; he's called Conway.”
“Conway—Conway?” repeated Beecher, aloud; “we have fortieth cousins, Conways. There was a fellow called Conway in the Twelfth Lancers that went a tremendous pace; they nicknamed him the 'Smasher,' I don't know why. Do you?” said he, addressing the soldier.
“I 've heard it was from an awkward habit he had of putting his heel on snobs.”
“Oh! you know him, perhaps?” said Beecher, affectedly.
“Why, as I was the man myself, I ought, according to the old adage, to say I knew but little of him.”
“You Conway of the Twelfth! the same that owned Brushwood and Lady Killer, that won the Riddlesworth?”
“You're calling up old memories to me,” said the youth, smiling, “which, after all, I 'd just as soon forget.”