“Monica Trant! Little Monica! Well, I am blessed!”
Who in the world was this that knew my name? I looked harder at him. Surely it—Was it?—yes! it was one of father’s old friends, Major Montresor. So this was my employer’s “business acquaintance.” I felt myself trying not to stare. The Governor, I know, was staring undisguisedly at the pair of us.
“Why, bless my soul, Monica! Who’d have expected to see you coming in like this?”
“Or you, Major Montresor?” I retorted, obliged to smile at him as I held out my hand to his always tenacious clasp.
To be frank, I can’t say I was at all pleased that the Governor’s visitor had turned out to be someone who’d seen me so often in the old days. I don’t want those days to be mixed up with these. Already a ghost or so out of those days had seemed inclined to come and haunt the lovely garden and the big, comfortable rooms at The Lawn! And now I seemed to see a regular Richard-the-Third-like procession of those ghosts rising up behind the little Major’s trimly-waisted figure—people with whom I’d associated last time he’d seen me—standing in judgment, echoing his “Who’d have expected to see you?”—adding their phantom stares to those of the two men whose eyes were actually upon me. It was tiresome; might mean all sorts of adaptations; even the assumption of a “Manner C” for the benefit of Major Montresor! As for him, he’s a rather amusing, tactless, talkative, would-be-man-of-the-world sort of person, who’d been quite ready to get up what Kipling calls the “You’re-only-a-little-girl type of flirtation” with me when I was seventeen or so. I hadn’t met him since, nor had I wanted to; though I had been distinctly interested, five years ago, to find that someone who possessed medals and a moustache cared to talk to me while I was still in the school-room. He’d got to look ever so much older since then, balder, stiffer of movement in his slim boots and his stays—I beg his pardon, I expect he called it his belt—and, apparently, more flirtatious than ever!
Now, any woman over thirty-five has to be fairly attractive before she’s allowed to flirt on without fear of ridicule. But a man at fifty, or fifty-five, seems to claim the right to monopolize the prettiest and youngest girl he meets. It doesn’t matter if he hasn’t a hair on his head or a tooth of his own in it. As long as he’s single and wears trousers, he’s an eligible bachelor—or so he thinks. A mercy he doesn’t hear the ideas of the favoured girl on this subject!
So, quite unsuspectingly, Major Montresor beamed upon me, and declared at least three times that this was a most delightful surprise, upon his word!—seeming almost to forget his host, who stood a little aside, looking utterly disconcerted, as far as I could see without turning my eyes, to discover that this “business acquaintance” knew his official fiancée better than her employer ever could!
Christian names, too!
“Monica—Bless my soul, what’s this?”
“This” was an interruption that precipitated itself through the unlatched French window; a small white dog that bore in his mouth a large bone, noisome-smelling and of the earth, earthy, which he dumped upon the Major’s japanned boot.