“Oh, Major, she is charming,” exclaimed Paganel, “a thousand times too charming, and if I must tell you all, she would please me better if she were less so. I wish she had a defect!”
“Be easy on that score,” replied the Major, “she has, and more than one. The most perfect woman in the world has always her quota. So, Paganel, it is settled then, I suppose?”
“I dare not.”
“Come, now, my learned friend, what makes you hesitate?”
“I am unworthy of Miss Arabella,” was the invariable reply of the geographer. And to this he would stick.
At last, one day being fairly driven in a corner by the intractable Major, he ended by confiding to him, under the seal of secrecy, a certain peculiarity which would facilitate his apprehension should the police ever be on his track.
“Bah!” said the Major.
“It is really as I tell you,” replied Paganel.
“What does it matter, my worthy friend?”
“Do you think so, Major?”