“No; I believe it would be better he were; but he was ruined in India,—'let in' on a race, and lost everything, even to his commission.”
“Was his name Stanley?”
“No, Stapyleton,—Frank Stapyleton,—he was in the Grays.”
“Sewell, what are you drinking?” cried Cave, with a loudness that overbore the talk around him. “I can't see you down there. You 've got amongst the youngsters.”
“I am in the midst of all that is agreeable and entertaining,” said Sewell, with a smile of most malicious meaning. “Talk of youngsters, indeed! I'd like to hear where you could match them for knowledge of life and mankind.”
There was certainly nothing in his look or manner as he spoke these words that suggested distrust or suspicion to those around him, for they seemed overjoyed at his praise, and delighted to hear themselves called men of the world. The grim old Major at the opposite side of the table shook his head thoughtfully, and muttered some words to himself.
“They 're a shady lot, I take it,” said a young captain to his neighbor, “those fellows who remain in India, and never come home; either they have done something they can't meet in England, or they want to do things in India they couldn't do here.”
“There's great truth in that remark,” said Sewell. “Captain Neeves, let us have a glass of wine together. I have myself seen a great deal to bear out your observation.”
Neeves colored with pleasure at this approval, and went on: “I heard of one fellow—I forget his name—I never remember names; but he had a very pretty wife, and all the fellows used to make up to her, and pay her immense attention, and the husband rooked them all at écarté, every man of them.”
“What a scoundrel!” said Sewell, with energy. “You ought to have preserved the name, if only for a warning.”