Miss Haythorn’s scream lost most of its effect because theengine whistled forty thousand murders at the same moment，and fictitious grief makes itself heard when real cannot.
Between the tunnel and Bath our young friend had timeto ask himself whether his conduct had been marked by thatdelicate reserve which is supposed to distinguish the perfectgentleman.
With a long face， real or feigned， he held open the door； hislate friends attempted to escape on the other side； impossible！
they must pass him. She whom he had insulted （Latin forkissed） deposited somewhere at his feet a look of gentle，blushing reproach； the other， whom he had not insulted， dartedred-hot daggers at him from her eyes； and so they parted.
It was perhaps fortunate for Dolignan that he had the graceto be a friend to Major Hoskyns of his regiment， a veteranlaughed at by the youngsters， for the major was too apt to lookcoldly upon billiard-balls and cigars； he had seen cannonballsand linstocks. He had also， to tell the truth， swallowed agood bit of the mess-room poker， which made it as impossiblefor Major Hoskyns to descend to an ungentlemanlike word oraction as to brush his own trousers below the knee.
Captain Dolignan told this gentleman his story in gleefulaccents； but Major Hoskyns heard him coldly， and as coldlyanswered that he had known a man to lose his life for the same thing.
“That is nothing，” continued the major， “but unfortunatelyhe deserved to lose it.”
At this blood mounted to the younger man’s temples， andhis senior added， “I mean to say he was thirty-five； you， Ipresume， are twenty-one！”
“Twenty-five.”
“That is much the same thing； will you be advised by me？”
“If you will advise me.”
“Speak to no one of this， and send White the three pounds，that he may think you have lost the bet.”
“That is hard， when I won it.”
“Do it， for all that， sir.”
Let the disbelievers in human perfectibility know that thisdragoon， capable of a blush， did this virtuous action， albeitwith violent reluctance； and this was his first damper. A weekafter these events he was at a ball. He was in that state offactitious discontent which belongs to us amiable English. Hewas looking in vain for a lady equal in personal attraction tothe idea he had formed of George Dolignan as a man， whensuddenly there glided past him a most delightful vision—alady whose beauty and symmetry took him by the eyes；another look： “It can’t be！ Yes， it is！” Miss Haythorn！ （not thathe knew her name）， but what an apotheosis！
The duck had become a peahen—radiant， dazzling； shelooked twice as beautiful and almost twice as large as before.
He lost sight of her； he found her again. She was so lovely shemade him ill， and he alone must not dance with her， speak toher. If he had been content to begin her acquaintance the usualway it might have ended in kissing； it must end in nothing.
As she danced sparks of beauty fell from her on all aroundbut him； she did not see him； it was clear she never would seehim. One gentleman was particularly assiduous； she smiled onhis assiduity； he was ugly， but she smiled on him. Dolignanwas surprised at his success， his ill taste， his ugliness， hisimpertinence. Dolignan at last found himself injured； who wasthis man？ and what right had he to go on so？ “He never kissedher， I suppose，” said Dolle. Dolignan could not prove it， buthe felt that somehow the rights of property were invaded. Hewent home and dreamed of Miss Haythorn， and hated all theugly successful. He spent a fortnight trying to find out whohis beauty was； he never could encounter her again. At last heheard of her in this way： a lawyer’s clerk paid him a little visitand commenced a little action against him in the name of MissHaythorn for insulting her in a railway-train.