In a few minutes they were enjoying their lunch, during which the conversation became very agreeable, and even animated. Young Roberts had nothing of the military puppy about him whatsoever. On the contrary, his deportment was modest, manly, and unassuming. Sensible of his father's humble, but yet respectable position, he neither attempted to swagger himself into importance by an affectation of superior breeding or contempt for his parent, nor did he manifest any of that sullen taciturnity which is frequently preserved, as a proof of superiority, or a mask for conscious ignorance and bad breeding; the fact being generally forgotten that it is an exponent of both.
“So, Edward, you like the army, then?” inquired Mr. Mainwaring.
“I do, sir,” replied young Roberts; “it's a noble profession.”
“Eight, Ned—a noble profession—that's the word,” said old Sam; “and so it is, my boy, and a brave and a generous one.”
Lucy Gourlay and the young soldier had occasionally glanced at each other; and it might have been observed, that whenever they did so, each seemed surprised, if not actually confused.
“Is it difficult, Edward,” asked Mainwaring, after they had taken wine together, “to purchase a commission at present?”
“It is not very easy to procure commissions just now,” replied the other; “but you know, Mr. Mainwaring, that I had the honor to be raised from the ranks.”
“Bravo, Ned!” exclaimed old Sam, slapping him him on the back; “I am glad to see that you take that honor in its true light. Thousands may have money to buy a commission, but give me the man that has merit to deserve it; especially, Ned, at so young an age as yours.”
“You must have distinguished yourself, sir,” observed Lucy, “otherwise it is quite unusual, I think, to witness the promotion from the ranks of so young a man.”
“I only endeavored to do my duty, madam,” replied Roberts, bowing modestly, whilst something like a blush came over his cheeks.