The next morning, Major Modeyne read a letter at breakfast, and having read it, watching Betty furtively out of the corners of his eyes, he stealthily took advantage of her attention being fixed upon the tea-making to put the letter into his pocket. It was a discomforting, abusive, cruel letter, and it said that he and his daughter received notice to vacate their rooms that day week--that there would be a cab waiting for them and their baggage as soon as it was dark, and that they must go, even if the law were employed to eject them. It stated what it had to say harshly, vulgarly, blatantly. It was not the kind of letter that raises a man’s self-respect. The week passed. The Major had never been gayer, more debonair. He glittered. He was a very sun. When he returned at night few knew. But the mornings saw him blithe and tuneful. The landlady and her daughter began to feel qualms. Still, they hardened their hearts; and it was not until the morning of the last day of the grace given him that the Major alluded to the unpleasant affair. He sent the little maid-of-all-work to say that he wished to see the ladies if they could spare him five minutes--it would only take three. He was ushered into their little sitting-room with all the formalities he himself observed with so rigid an etiquette. “Well, Major!” The landlady broke an embarrassed silence. “Ladies,” said he--“I received a letter a week ago for which I have expected a formal apology. It has not been tendered.” The ladies stiffened, ruffled. The elder said: “Major Modeyne, we hope you do not intend to make us use pressure to you.” “No lady’s pressure has ever met rebuff from me,” said the Major gallantly. “I would meet the lady half way.” The daughter sniffed: “Major, you are pulling ma’s leg,” she said. “Then, madam,” said the Major--“this is no place for her daughter.” “You are trying to be funny, Major,” said the young woman huffily. “Madam, most serious. For, were I to show indignation in my denial I should cast aspersion on a handsome limb; were I to fail in denying the soft impeachment I should entangle the limb in the moralities. You place me in the unhappy position known as the quandary. I can only escape from that position by saying that I have every confidence in your mother, and that it is my habit to keep her comely figure out of the gossip.” “Lor, Major--I don’t know what you are getting at!” “That I have pulled nothing,” said the Major solemnly. “What do you want?” “Ah, yes,” said the Major--“I came for the apology.” “Then you don’t get it,” said the young woman tartly. The Major bowed. “That, madam, is a matter of taste.” The young woman tossed her head: “We don’t need to go to a school of manners, Major Modeyne.” The Major bowed again: “The letter,” said he, “is illegal.” The women looked at each other uncomfortably. “What?” said the daughter.