“You don’t mind, do you?” I said, over my shoulder, as I opened the jewelry-box.
“Not at all, not at all,” answered the major. “Anything to oblige a lady.”
I drew out the sack of chamois-skin. “Here it is,” I said, holding it out to him. “You’ll find it in perfect condition and quite complete. I’m so sorry that we couldn’t seem to locate Amelia. Not knowing the rest of her name was rather inconvenient. There were dozens of Amelias in the directory.”
The major took the sack, and put it in his breast-pocket.
“Dozens of Amelias,” he repeated, slapping his pocket. “Who’d have thought it!”
“We even advertised,” I continued. “Perhaps you saw the personal; it was in the morning Herald, and was very short and noncommittal, but no one answered it.”
“We saw it,” said the major. “Yes, I recollect quite distinctly seeing it. It—it—indicated to us—aw—aw—”
The major reddened and paused, pulling his mustache.
“That we hadn’t found Amelia and still had the present,” I answered, in a sprightly tone. “That was just it. And so you came to get it? Very kind of you, indeed, Major Thatcher.”
The major bowed. He was really a very fine-looking, well-mannered man. If he only had been the honest, respectable person we first thought him I would have liked to add him to my collection. I’m sure if you knew him better he would have been much more interesting than the bishop and the lords.