“Well, Leslie Pierpoint, after remaining bachelor twenty years, thou art made captive by a linen-draper’s ’prentice! ’Tis true, and pity ’tis, ’tis true! Leslie Pierpoint, thou art false to thyself! But what a soft, sweet hand! How could I help taking it if she would thrust it into mine? But, poor child, I suppose I had frightened her by calling her an old woman, and she scarcely knew what she was about! Old woman? A youthful divinity! What heavenly blue eyes! What a sweet round bust! What an exquisite waist, the charms of which even her coarse dress could not conceal! And her foot, so petite and delicately turned! How rich were the tones of her voice! How enchanting her smile! Ah, Leslie Pierpoint, thou art in love with a ’prentice maiden! At forty years thou art become a fool! Yes, I am a fool! What have I to do with the sex? Have I not a lasting feud with it? Ah, let me not forget Clara Clayton! Remember her, and so forget this pretty maiden, for she belongs to the same false hearted sex!”
Thus soliloquized Major Pierpoint, and, turning from the fire, he walked his room some time with a thoughtful brow. All at once he stopped and pulled his bell with an emphasis. Cato made his instant appearance.
“Sar, massa.”
“Bring me my boots.”
“What massa say?”
“Bring me my boots,” repeated Leslie, more decidedly.
The black left the room with an inquiring look, as much as to ask what could take his master out in such an evening.
“Yes, I will do it. I will learn all about her! Such beautiful teeth! Such a bright, intelligent, sensible face! Such innate high breeding!”
Cato brought the boots, and in a few minutes afterwards the Major had exchanged his evening home costume for boots, overcoat and hat.
“My stick, Cato.”