"Of course; but——"
"But what?" asked Bob Waller, testily; "is a fellow to be everlastingly quizzed in that mess-room style, just because—because"—he stuttered and paused.
"What?" said Polwhele, laughing and pointing his black mustaches, which the Line wore in India long before the Crimean war.
"Because he has an honest fancy for a girl; and do you know, Jack, I think I could love that girl—seriously now."
"Very probably; but do you think she could love you?"
"True, I am only a captain, with a small share in an old Cornish mine, and no end of expectations."
"It is only being up-country and idleness."
"I'd call you out, Jack, only it is not the fashion to treat one's friends so now," retorted Waller, as they reached their quarters in the old fort. "There bangs the evening gun from the Bala Hissa; and now to dress for mess."
Some of Polwhele's thoughtless speeches rankled more in the mind of Denzil than he quite cared to show; for he knew that if the idea struck the mind of that confident personage he would propose to Rose Trecarrel in a moment; and Polwhele, he was aware, had a handsome estate partly in Cornwall and partly in Devonshire, and was a most eligible parti.
He, himself, was but a junior subaltern, and he speculated on the years that must inevitably pass ere he could be a captain. Oh, Rose would never wait all that time, and be true.