“‘Zounds!’ thought I, as a pang of jealousy shot through my heart, ‘is it the major she means?’ For old Belson, with his bag wig and rouged cheeks, was seated on the other side of her.
“‘What a dear thing it is!’ said Polly.
“‘Worse and worse,’ said I; ‘it must be him.’
“‘I do so love his muzzy face.’
“‘It is him!’ said I, throwing off a bumper, and almost boiling over with passion at the moment.
“‘I wish I could take one look at him,’ said she, laying down her head as she spoke.
“The major whispered something in her ear, to which she replied,—
“‘Oh, I dare not; papa will see me at once.’
“‘Don’t be afraid, Madam,’ said I, fiercely; ‘your father perfectly approves of your taste.’
“‘Are you sure of it?’ said she, giving me such a look.