Old comrades

Colonel Tracy spoke with the air of one enunciating a profound truth, disembosomed by himself for the first time in the history of the world. He was a grey-haired veteran, with large features, a complexion of deep-red rust, and solid though not tall figure. Fifteen years of "retired" life had not undone his Indian military training. When giving an order to daughter or domestic, he was apt still to give it as to a Sepoy. "Ready! Present! Fire!" was the Colonel's style. Domestics were disposed to rebel, where the daughter had to endure.

Dorothea laid down her book, and stood up slowly. There was a controlled stillness about her movements, unusual in girls of eighteen, and not too common in women of middle age. She did not remind her father that he, not she, had conveyed the volume to its present resting-place. One week at home—if this could fairly be called "home"—had shown Dorothea that whatever went wrong would be the fault of anybody rather than of the Colonel. So she left that question alone, and vanished.

The Colonel lifted his head, and looked after her. "Quiet!" he muttered in a gratified tone. "Good thing, too! I hate your bouncing women, slamming the doors, and shaking the house at every step." He had himself a heavy footfall, and he was given to loud shutting of doors, but these were exclusive privileges, not to be accorded to anybody else.

The room which Dorothea left was not attractive. Carpet and curtains were faded; wall-paper and furniture were ugly; ornaments were cheap and in bad taste. There were no dainty knick-knacks on brackets or side-tables. An old-fashioned round table stood in the centre, and was strewn with books—dull books in dull bindings.

London lodgings are not wont to be attractive, especially the second-rate sort. This was the "upstairs parlour" of a very second-rate sort, situated in a side-street of exceptional dreariness.

All the houses on either side of the street were exactly like all the rest. Each had a porch with steps; each had an area with more steps; each had one window of a small dining-room beside the porch, and two windows of a little drawing-room above; each had two bedroom windows yet higher, and most had two garret holes at the top. Each was discoloured with smoke, dingy and dismal. Each had white blinds to the bedroom windows, which seemed to keep up a futile struggle after cleanliness.

These particulars would have been patent in daylight; but daylight vanishes early on a December afternoon in town. Night had drawn its pall over the big city an hour before. A tall candle burnt upon the table, close to the Colonel. He was so used to read and write alone by the light of a single candle, that the need of a second for his daughter had not occurred to him.

She came in, carrying the big volume, laid it down, and stood for a moment beside him, as if to await further orders.

There was nothing "school-girlish" about Dorothea, in the ordinary sense of the word, though she had left school but one week earlier. Of good height, she had a pretty figure, the effect of which was somewhat spoilt by the forward carriage of her head, almost amounting to a poke, and due to short sight. Her face was rounded and pale, and in repose was serious. The wistful eyes looked through a pair of "pincer" glasses, balanced on a neat little nose.

Colonel Tracy was making voluminous notes from a decrepit brown volume, which had lost half its binding. He wrote an atrocious hand, which fact had mattered little hitherto, since nobody needed to read it except himself. Now that he was beginning to wake up to the possession of a daughter who might be useful, a new element came into the question.