The Major took his leave.
“Your champagne was excellent,” he said, as the widow saw him to the door. “You must let me know some day where you get it, and, of course, when the week is up and everything is comfortably arranged, you and Brenda and Florence will give us the pleasure of dining with us at the Moat.”
“Thank you so much, Major,” said Mrs Fortescue.
The Major walked down the street, murmuring to himself—
“Two or three thousand a year! It is true—it must be true. She has practically admitted it.”
He met his son, who was, in fact, waiting for him.
“Come for a walk, Mike,” said the old man. “Give me your arm, my boy. I have been busy over your affairs during the morning, and the fact is, that woman’s sweet champagne has got into my head. I can’t imagine how it is that women never know the difference between dry champagne and sweet. I shall have a bilious attack after this, as sure as fate.”
“Where in the world have you been, dad?” said the lieutenant, looking with apprehension at his father’s flushed face.
“Why, my boy,” said the Major, “I have been eating the most abominable lunch I ever tasted in the whole course of my life at Mrs Fortescue’s.”
“At Mrs Fortescue’s?” said the young man. “You surely have not been there about—about Florence and me!”