“Not officially—but at heart, always.”
“I wonder you did not get in Government Secret Service. You would have been invaluable,” cooed one of the ladies.
“Ahem! Yes, but Burnett & Burnett needed me.”
“Of course—but how noble of you to stay in Wakely when the logical place for you to be was Washington,” declared Miss Willie. Then she asked vaguely: “Do they bury Secret Service agents in Arlington?” Nobody knew, so nobody answered, and Miss Willie blushed furiously, fearing that Major Simpson might guess the foolish thing that was in her mind when she asked the seemingly inconsequent question. Miss Willie had a way of breaking into a conversation following her own train of thought rather than the subject under discussion, and the guests at Maison Blanche were accustomed to her peculiarity and paid little attention to it. One solemn looking old lady, who said little but missed nothing, gave a deep gurgling chuckle. This old lady’s name was Mrs. Trescott. She had occupied a small back bedroom at Mrs. Celeste Waite’s for as many years as Major Simpson had occupied the large front one.
Mrs. Trescott’s chuckle was fortunately drowned by the dinner gong. The boarders trooped in and fell on the purree de pois with the same gusto they would have employed had it been called plain pea soup. As soon as the first pangs of hunger were satisfied the conversation of the parlor was resumed.
“But, Major Simpson, you haven’t told us what this naughty girl looks like,” said one of the ladies. “Of course she is beautiful and charming and very chic.”
“No, I don’t think she is any of these things,” said the Major. “She is quite insignificant looking and her clothes are not of the latest style, though they are of very rich material. Her shoes are quite good and she is intellectual and well educated; speaks French with a good accent and reads Greek. Those high-brow crooks are the worst of all and the hardest to catch.”
“Boeuf a la mode to-day,” said Mrs. White by way of informing the assembled company that French with an accent was eaten at her table if not spoken. And one of the young men at the far end of the room said in a hoarse whisper:
“That means biled beef.” But Mrs. Celeste White never heard anything she did not want to hear.
There were three persons at Maison Blanche that might have been called thorns in the flesh or flies in the amber. They were two frivolous young men and one young woman who utterly refused to play the game of its being a French pension and who openly made game of Major Simpson, calling him Sherlocko and asking him where Dr. Watsonia was. They had all their fun to themselves, however, as the other inmates loved to look upon their dinner as table d’hote and were sure that Major Simpson in flesh and blood was much cleverer than Conan Doyle’s fictitious detective. Mrs. Trescott was the only person who derived any amusement from the bad manners of the three young persons and she could not help giving her famous gurgling chuckle when any of their witty remarks touched her risibles.