“Aye? aye? What you call a fine woman--eh, Oliver?” “Certainly, sir.” “Tall?” “Nearly as tall as I am, Major.” “Aye? aye? aye? A good figure?” “As slim as a sapling, sir, and as upright as a dart.” “On second thoughts, I am at home, Oliver. Show her in! show her in!” So far, one thing at least seemed to be clear. I had done well in sending for the chambermaid. What would Oliver’s report of me have been if I had presented myself to him with my colorless cheeks and my ill-dressed hair? The servant reappeared, and conducted me to the inner room. Major Fitz-David advanced to welcome me. What was the Major like? Well, he was like a well-preserved old gentleman of, say, sixty years old, little and lean, and chiefly remarkable by the extraordinary length of his nose. After this feature, I noticed next his beautiful brown wig; his sparkling little gray eyes; his rosy complexion; his short military whisker, dyed to match his wig; his white teeth and his winning smile; his smart blue frock-coat, with a camellia in the button-hole; and his splendid ring, a ruby, flashing on his little finger as he courteously signed to me to take a chair. “Dear Mrs. Woodville, how very kind of you this is! I have been longing to have the happiness of knowing you. Eustace is an old friend of mine. I congratulated him when I heard of his marriage. May I make a confession?--I envy him now I have seen his wife.” The future of my life was perhaps in this man’s hands. I studied him attentively: I tried to read his character in his face. The Major’s sparkling little gray eyes softened as they looked at me; the Major’s strong and sturdy voice dropped to its lowest and tenderest tones when he spoke to me; the Major’s manner expressed, from the moment when I entered the room, a happy mixture of admiration and respect. He drew his chair close to mine, as if it were a privilege to be near me. He took my hand and lifted my glove to his lips, as if that glove were the most delicious luxury the world could produce. “Dear Mrs. Woodville,” he said, as he softly laid my hand back on my lap, “bear with an old fellow who worships your enchanting sex. You really brighten this dull house. It is _such_ a pleasure to see you!” There was no need for the old gentleman to make his little confession. Women, children, and dogs proverbially know by instinct who the people are who really like them. The women had a warm friend--perhaps at one time a dangerously warm friend--in Major Fitz-David. I knew as much of him as that before I had settled myself in my chair and opened my lips to answer him. “Thank you, Major, for your kind reception and your pretty compliment,” I said, matching my host’s easy tone as closely as the necessary restraints on my side would permit. “You have made your confession. May I make mine?”