“You may call this evening for your answer, which I suppose you, with the ready conceit of your sex and profession, will have already anticipated.
“Yours, very truly, Helen Wittleday.”
The lieutenant groaned.
“It’s all up, major! you’ll have to marry her. ’Twould be awfully ungentlemanly to let her know there was any mistake.”
“Do you think so, Fred?” asked the major, with a perceptible twitch at the corners of his mouth.
“Certainly, I do,” replied the sorrowful lover; “and I’m sure you can learn to love her; she is simply an angel—a goddess. Confound it! you can’t help loving her.”
“You really believe so, do you, my boy?” asked the major, with fatherly gravity. “But how would you feel about it?”
“As if no one else on earth was good enough for her—as if she was the luckiest woman alive,” quickly answered the young man, with a great deal of his natural spirit. “’Twould heal my wound entirely.”
“Very well, my boy,” said the major; “I’ll put you out of your misery as soon as possible.”