The Major looked at his watch, and rose--with fluent apologies for abruptly leaving the table. “It is later than I thought,” he said. “I have an appointment with a friend--a female friend; a most attractive person. You a little remind me of her, my dear lady--you resemble her in complexion: the same creamy paleness. I adore creamy paleness. As I was saying, I have an appointment with my friend; she does me the honor to ask my opinion on some very remarkable specimens of old lace. I have studied old lace. I study everything that can make me useful or agreeable to your enchanting sex. You won’t forget our little dinner? I will send Dexter his invitation the moment I get home.” He took my hand and looked at it critically, with his head a little on one side. “A delicious hand,” he said; “you don’t mind my looking at it--you don’t mind my kissing it, do you? A delicious hand is one of my weaknesses. Forgive my weaknesses. I promise to repent and amend one of these days.” “At your age, Major, do you think you have much time to lose?” asked a strange voice, speaking behind us. We all three looked around toward the door. There stood my husband’s mother, smiling satirically, with Benjamin’s shy little maid-servant waiting to announce her. Major Fitz-David was ready with his answer. The old soldier was not easily taken by surprise. “Age, my dear Mrs. Macallan, is a purely relative expression,” he said. “There are some people who are never young, and there are other people who are never old. I am one of the other people. _Au revoir!_” With that answer the incorrigible Major kissed the tips of his fingers to us and walked out. Benjamin, bowing with his old-fashioned courtesy, threw open the door of his little library, and, inviting Mrs. Macallan and myself to pass in, left us together in the room. CHAPTER XXIII MY MOTHER-IN-LAW SURPRISES ME. I TOOK a chair at a respectful distance from the sofa on which Mrs. Macallan seated herself. The old lady smiled, and beckoned to me to take my place by her side. Judging by appearances, she had certainly not come to see me in the character of an enemy. It remained to be discovered whether she were really disposed to be my friend. “I have received a letter from your uncle the vicar,” she began. “He asks me to visit you, and I am happy--for reasons which you shall presently hear--to comply with his request. Under other circumstances I doubt very much, my dear child--strange as the confession may appear--whether I should have ventured into your presence. My son has behaved to you so weakly, and (in my opinion) so inexcusably, that I am really, speaking as his mother, almost ashamed to face you.” Was she in earnest? I listened to her and looked at her in amazement.