“I shall be delighted to meet Lady Clarinda,” I replied. “In the meantime—”
“I will get up a little dinner,” proceeded the Major, with a burst of enthusiasm. “You and I and Lady Clarinda. Our young prima donna shall come in the evening, and sing to us. Suppose we draw out the menu? My sweet friend, what is your favorite autumn soup?”
“In the meantime,” I persisted, “to return to what we were speaking of just now—”
The Major’s smile vanished; the Major’s hand dropped the pen destined to immortalize the name of my favorite autumn soup.
“Must we return to that?” he asked, piteously.
“Only for a moment,” I said.
“You remind me,” pursued Major Fitz-David, shaking his head sadly, “of another charming friend of mine—a French friend—Madame Mirliflore. You are a person of prodigious tenacity of purpose. Madame Mirliflore is a person of prodigious tenacity of purpose. She happens to be in London. Shall we have her at our little dinner?” The Major brightened at the idea, and took up the pen again. “Do tell me,” he said, “what is your favorite autumn soup?”
“Pardon me,” I began, “we were speaking just now—”
“Oh, dear me!” cried Major Fitz-David. “Is this the other subject?”
“Yes—this is the other subject.”