How different is the Major’s manner to that of Lacquers, Uppercrust, and half the other unmeaning dandies whom Blanche is accustomed to see fluttering round her. He _has_ the least thing of a military swagger, which most women certainly like, more particularly when in their own case that lordly demeanour is laid aside for a soft deferential air, highly captivating to the weaker sex; and nobody understands this better than D’Orville. The little he says to Blanche is quiet, amusing, and to the purpose. The heiress is agreeably surprised. The implied homage of such a man is, to say the least of it, flattering; and our cavalier has the good sense to take his leave as soon as he sees he has made a favourable impression, quite satisfied with the way in which he has “opened the trenches.” At the moment he did so, on turning round he encountered Mary Delaval. She looked unmoved as usual, and put out her hand to him, as if they had been in the habit of meeting every day. With a few incoherent words he bent over those long well-shaped fingers; and an observant bystander might have had the good luck to witness a somewhat unusual sight--a Major of Hussars blushing to the very tips of his moustaches. Yes; the hardened man of the world, the experienced _roué_, the dashing _militaire_, had a heart, if you could only get at it, like the veriest clown then ‘squiring his red-faced Dolly to “the races”--the natural for the moment overcame the artificial--and as Gaston edged his way down through nodding comrades and smiling ladies, the feeling uppermost in his heart was, “Heavens! how I love this woman still! and what a fool I am!” But sentiment must not be indulged to the exclusion of business, and the Major too forces his way into the betting-ring.