“A soldier, Mr. Anne, sir?” cried Rowley, with a sudden feverish animation. “Was you ever wounded?”
It is contrary to my principles to discourage admiration for myself; and, slipping back the shoulder of the dressing-gown, I silently exhibited the scar which I had received in Edinburgh Castle. He looked at it with awe.
“Ah, well!” he continued, “there’s where the difference comes in! It’s in the training. The other Viscount have been horse-racing, and dicing, and carrying on all his life. All right enough, no doubt; but what I do say is that it don’t lead to nothink. Whereas——”
“Whereas Mr. Rowley’s?” I put in.
“My Viscount?” said he. “Well, sir, I did say it; and now that I’ve seen you, I say it again!”
I could not refrain from smiling at this outburst, and the rascal caught me in the mirror and smiled to me again.
“I’d say it again, Mr. Hanne,” he said. “I know which side my bread’s buttered. I know when a gen’leman’s a gen’leman. Mr. Powl can go to Putney with his one! Beg your pardon, Mr. Anne, for being so familiar,” said he, blushing suddenly scarlet. “I was especially warned against it by Mr. Powl.”
“Discipline before all,” said I. “Follow your front-rank man.”
With that we began to turn our attention to the clothes. I was amazed to find them fit so well: not à la diable, in the haphazard manner of a soldier’s uniform or a ready-made suit; but with nicety, as a trained artist might rejoice to make them for a favourite subject.
“’Tis extraordinary,” cried I: “these things fit me perfectly.”