There remained no virtue, then, in the eyes of Outram's Own for
Colonel Kirby to acquire; he had all that they could imagine, besides
at least a dozen they had not imagined before he came to them. There
was not one black-bearded gentleman who couched a lance behind him
but believed Colonel Kirby some sort of super-man; and, in return,
Colonel Kirby found the regiment so satisfying that there was not
even a lady on the sky-line who could look forward to encroaching on
the regiment's preserves.

His heart, his honor, and his rare ability were all the regiment's,
and the regiment knew it; so he was studied as is the lot of few. His
servant knew which shoes he would wear on a Thursday morning, and
would have them ready; the mess-cook spiced the curry so exactly to
his taste that more than one cook-book claimed it to be a species
apart and labeled it with his name. If he frowned, the troopers knew
somebody had tried to flatter him; if he smiled, the regiment
grinned; and when his face lacked all expression, though his eyes
were more than usually quick, officer, non-commissioned officer and
man alike would sit tight in the saddle, so to speak, and gather up
their reins.

His mood was recognized that afternoon as he drove back from the
club while he was yet four hundred yards away, although twilight was
closing down. The waler mare--sixteen three and a half, with one
white stocking and a blaze that could be seen from the sky-line--
brought his big dog-cart through the street mud at a speed which
would have insured the arrest of the driver of a motor; but that, if
anything, was a sign of ordinary health.