"Love rules the court, the camp, the grove," says the poet; and there he
stops, leaving the rest of the places under the pink little god's
_regime_ to our imagination.
He was busy as ever at Brackley, with people in a humbler walk in life
and there was an attraction there for a person who plays no prominent
part in this narrative, to wit, Thompson, private dragoon in Her
Majesty's service, and valet and confidential man to Captain Rolph.
He had long fixed his affections possibly in military temporary fashion
upon Mason, Glynne's maid. These affections had glowed during the many
visits to Warren and Hall, cooled down during the activities of
service--rubbing down his master as he would a horse, and helping him to
train--sinking for a year and a half or so after "the upset" at
Brackley, and turning up again when the captain came back to The Warren
to be hitched on again, as he termed it. For, truth to tell, it was
known that Mason had one hundred and fourteen pounds deposited in
consols with a certain old lady in Threadneedle Street.