Major Fitz-David set down his wine-glass on its way to his lips, and looked at me with an appearance of breathless interest.
“Command me, my dear lady—I am yours and yours only,” said the gallant old gentleman. “What do you wish to ask me?”
“I wish to ask if you know Miserrimus Dexter.”
“Good Heavens!” cried the Major; “that is an unexpected question! Know Miserrimus Dexter? I have known him for more years than I like to reckon up. What can be your object—”
“I can tell you what my object is in two words,” I interposed. “I want you to give me an introduction to Miserrimus Dexter.”
My impression is that the Major turned pale under his paint. This, at any rate, is certain—his sparkling little gray eyes looked at me in undisguised bewilderment and alarm.
“You want to know Miserrimus Dexter?” he repeated, with the air of a man who doubted the evidence of his own senses. “Mr. Benjamin, have I taken too much of your excellent wine? Am I the victim of a delusion—or did our fair friend really ask me to give her an introduction to Miserrimus Dexter?”
Benjamin looked at me in some bewilderment on his side, and answered, quite seriously,
“I think you said so, my dear.”
“I certainly said so,” I rejoined. “What is there so very surprising in my request?”