Now, Mr. Fibbes had observed, by hanging about Grosvenor Square and making use of his early education, that Major D’Orville was a constant visitant at a certain house in that locality; indeed, on more than one occasion he had held the white horse at the very door which was honoured by the egress and ingress of Blanche Kettering herself. We may be sure he lost no time in discovering the name of the owner, and mastering such particulars of her fortune, position, general habits, and appearance as were attainable through the all-powerful influence of beer; so when Tom Blacke made his ill-advised confidences to his boon companion, omitting neither names, facts, nor dates, Mr. Fibbes, who, to use his own words, was “not such a fool as he looked,” put _that_ and _that_ together quite satisfactorily enough, to be sure he had some information well worth a good round douceur, for the ear of his friend the Major. And he waylaid him in consequence, the first sunshiny afternoon on which, according to his wont, D’Orville appeared in the neighbourhood of his lady-love’s domicile. “Want yer horse held, Major?” said he, leaning his huge, dirty hand on the white charger’s mane. “Haven’t seen your honour since we won so cleverly at Hampton--no offence, Major!” “None whatever, my good fellow,” said the Major, who, by the way, was never in a hurry, though few men loved going _fast_ better; “none whatever; but I’m busy now, I’ve no time to stop. Good-day to you.” “Well, but, Major, see,” pleaded Mr. Fibbes, still smoothing the white horse’s mane, “I’ve got something at my place you _would_ like to look at--she’s a _real_ beauty, she is--I refused five sovereigns for her this blessed mornin’; for I said, says I, no, says I, not till the Major has seen her, ’cause she _is_ a rare one--not that you care for such in a general way, Major, but if once you clapped eyes on ‘Jessie,’ you’d never rest till you got her down at the barracks. I never see such a one.” “Such a what?” inquired D’Orville, gradually waxing curious about such manifold perfections. “Why, such an out-an’-outer,” retorted Mr. Fibbes, half angrily; “none of your _brindles_--I can’t abide a brindle--they may be good, but they look so _wulgar_. No, no, Jessie’s none of your brindles.” “Well, but _what_ is she, my good fellow?” said the Major; “I can’t stay here all day.” “_Bul_,” replied Mr. Fibbes, throwing into the monosyllable an expression of mingled anger and contempt, which, having given the Major sufficient time to digest, he followed up by the real topic on which he was anxious to enlarge. “No offence, Major,” he repeated, “but I’ve got something else to say--you’ll excuse me, sir--but you’ve stood a friend to me, and I won’t see you put upon. Major, there’s a screw loose here--it’s not _on the square_, you understand.” “What do you mean?” said the Major, amused in spite of himself, at the ungainly nods and winks with which Mr. Fibbes eked out his mysterious communication.