As we entered the adjutant-general’s office we observed that the entire staff was there.  The adjutant-general himself was exceedingly busy at his desk.  The commissary of subsistence played cards with the surgeon in a bay window.  The rest were in several parts of the room, reading or conversing in low tones.  On a sofa in a half lighted nook of the room, at some distance from any of the groups, sat the “lady,” closely veiled, her eyes modestly fixed upon her toes.

“Madam,” I said, advancing with Haberton, “this officer will be pleased to serve you if it is in his power.  I trust that it is.”

With a bow I retired to the farther corner of the room and took part in a conversation going on there, though I had not the faintest notion what it was about, and my remarks had no relevancy to anything under the heavens.  A close observer would have noticed that we were all intently watching Haberton and only “making believe” to do anything else.

He was worth watching, too; the fellow was simply an edition de luxe of “Turveydrop on Deportment.”  As the “lady” slowly unfolded her tale of grievances against our lawless soldiery and mentioned certain instances of wanton disregard of property rights—­among them, as to the imminent peril of bursting our sides we partly overheard, the looting of her own wardrobe—­the look of sympathetic agony in Haberton’s handsome face was the very flower and fruit of histrionic art.  His deferential and assenting nods at her several statements were so exquisitely performed that one could not help regretting their unsubstantial nature and the impossibility of preserving them under glass for instruction and delight of posterity.  And all the time the wretch was drawing his chair nearer and nearer.  Once or twice he looked about to see if we were observing, but we were in appearance blankly oblivious to all but one another and our several diversions.  The low hum of our conversation, the gentle tap-tap of the cards as they fell in play and the furious scratching of the adjutant-general’s pen as he turned off countless pages of words without sense were the only sounds heard.  No—­there was another:  at long intervals the distant boom of a heavy gun, followed by the approaching rush of the shot.  The enemy was amusing himself.

On these occasions the lady was perhaps not the only member of that company who was startled, but she was startled more than the others, sometimes rising from the sofa and standing with clasped hands, the authentic portrait of terror and irresolution.  It was no more than natural that Haberton should at these times reseat her with infinite tenderness, assuring her of her safety and regretting her peril in the same breath.  It was perhaps right that he should finally possess himself of her gloved hand and a seat beside her on the sofa; but it certainly was highly improper for him to be in the very act of possessing himself of both hands when—­boom, whiz, BANG!