"I am sometimes called Betty, sir," she acknowledged.
"Also 'Bewitching Bet'!" Here he scowled fiercely at a bunch of cherries.
"Do you think Bet so ill a name, sir?" she enquired, stealing a glance at him.
"'Bewitching Bet'!" he repeated grimly and the hand that grasped his broken pipe became a fist, observing which she smiled slyly.
"Or is it that the 'bewitching' offends you, sir?" she questioned innocently.
"Both, mam, both!" said he, scowling yet.
"La, sir," she cried gaily, "in this light and at this precise angle I do protest you look quite handsome when you frown."
The Major immediately laughed.
"If," she continued, "your chin were less grim and craggy and your nose a little different and your eyes less like gimlets and needles—if you wore a modish French wig instead of a horsehair mat and had your garments made by a London tailor instead of a country cobbler and carpenter you would be almost attractive—by candle light."
"Is my wig so unmodish?" he enquired smiling a trifle ruefully, "'tis my best."