“You remind me,” pursued Major Fitz-David, shaking his head sadly, “of another charming friend of mine--a French friend--Madame Mirliflore. You are a person of prodigious tenacity of purpose. Madame Mirliflore is a person of prodigious tenacity of purpose. She happens to be in London. Shall we have her at our little dinner?” The Major brightened at the idea, and took up the pen again. “Do tell me,” he said, “what _is_ your favorite autumn soup?” “Pardon me,” I began, “we were speaking just now--” “Oh, dear me!” cried Major Fitz-David. “Is this the other subject?” “Yes--this is the other subject.” The Major put down his pen for the second time, and regretfully dismissed from his mind Madame Mirliflore and the autumn soup. “Yes?” he said, with a patient bow and a submissive smile. “You were going to say--” “I was going to say,” I rejoined, “that your promise only pledges you not to tell the secret which my husband is keeping from me. You have given no promise not to answer me if I venture to ask you one or two questions.” Major Fitz-David held up his hand warningly, and cast a sly look at me out of his bright little gray eyes. “Stop!” he said. “My sweet friend, stop there! I know where your questions will lead me, and what the result will be if I once begin to answer them. When your husband was here to-day he took occasion to remind me that I was as weak as water in the hands of a pretty woman. He is quite right. I _am_ as weak as water; I can refuse nothing to a pretty woman. Dear and admirable lady, don’t abuse your influence! don’t make an old soldier false to his word of honor!” I tried to say something here in defense of my motives. The Major clasped his hands entreatingly, and looked at me with a pleading simplicity wonderful to see.