forgotten altogether the black dandified figure and the large
solemn head, but I remembered the peculiar speech, which consisted
of only saying about a quarter of each sentence, and that sharply,
like the crack of a gun. I do not know, it may have come from
giving orders to troops.

Major Brown was a V.C., and an able and distinguished soldier, but
he was anything but a warlike person. Like many among the iron men
who recovered British India, he was a man with the natural beliefs
and tastes of an old maid. In his dress he was dapper and yet
demure; in his habits he was precise to the point of the exact
adjustment of a tea-cup. One enthusiasm he had, which was of the
nature of a religion--the cultivation of pansies. And when he
talked about his collection, his blue eyes glittered like a child's
at a new toy, the eyes that had remained untroubled when the troops
were roaring victory round Roberts at Candahar.

"Well, Major," said Rupert Grant, with a lordly heartiness,
flinging himself into a chair, "what is the matter with you?"

"Yellow pansies. Coal-cellar. P. G. Northover," said the Major,
with righteous indignation.

We glanced at each other with inquisitiveness. Basil, who had his
eyes shut in his abstracted way, said simply:

"I beg your pardon."

"Fact is. Street, you know, man, pansies. On wall. Death to me.
Something. Preposterous."