I can not have been hypocritical, for of all things I detest that most; but in good faith I said, being conquered by the Major's relaxation of his eyes,
“Oh, why have you never offered it to me? You knew that I never could ask for it.”
For the moment he looked surprised, as if our ideas had gone crosswise; and then he remembered many little symptoms of my faith in his opinions; which was now growing inevitable, with his wife and daughters, and many grandchildren—all certain that he was a Solomon.
“Erema,” he said, “you are a dear good girl, though sadly, sadly romantic. I had no idea that you had so much sense. I will talk with you, Erema, when we both have leisure.”
“I am quite at leisure, Major Hockin,” I replied, “and only too happy to listen to you.”
“Yes, yes, I dare say. You are in lodgings. You can do exactly as you please. But I have a basin of ox-tail soup, a cutlet, and a woodcock waiting for me at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. Bless me! I am five minutes late already. I will come and have a talk with you afterward.”
“Thank you,” I said; “we had better leave it. It seems of no importance, compared—compared with—”
“My dinner!” said the Major; but he was offended, and so was I a little, though neither of us meant to vex the other.