The room was decorated with prints of Nelson's victories, the Siege of Gibraltar, the Battle of Alexandria, and other recent glories of our arms by sea and land; while over the mantel-piece was one of Gillray's gaudily-coloured political caricatures, which were then so much in vogue—for he was the H.B. and Punch of the Regency.
Two officers in undress uniform, with blue facings (their swords, sashes, and caps lying on the table beside them) were lounging over some brandy and water, and laughing at Gillray's, not over-delicate print, while Quentin retired to a remote corner of the room, and smarting under the waiter's impertinence, now felt more lonely and depressed than he had done since leaving home. He could remember that his last reception in that very house had been so different, when, in Lady Rohallion's carriage, he and Flora Warrender had driven up to the door and ordered luncheon.
One of the military guests was a tall, weather-beaten, soldier-like man, about thirty-five years of age, a lieutenant apparently by the bullion of his epaulettes; the other was slender, fair-haired, and rather plainly featured, and proved to be the ensign of his recruiting party, which was then beating up at Ayr. As the churlish waiter passed them after putting some wine before Quentin, the lieutenant asked, in a low voice—
"What is he?"
"Who, sir?"
"That young fellow in the corner."
"Too proud for a recruit—an officer, I think," said the waiter, with a grin.
"A sheriff's officer?—that boy, do you mean?"
"No, sir—in the army," whispered the waiter, with a still more impertinent grin, and retired before Quentin could hurl the decanter at his head, which he felt very much inclined to do.
He was seriously offended, but affected to look out of the window, while the two subalterns, turning their backs on him, resumed their conversation as if he had not been present.