Collector, and have a look at them. You can unfold
your argument over a glass of wine, if you will do me that pleasure."
The Major had a high opinion of Mr. Pennefather's conversation; he
was accustomed to say that it made you think.
"If you are sure, sir, it will not incommode you?"
"Not in the least. I expect Hansombody will join us presently.
Scipio, bring out the brown sherry."
Now the Major had not invited Dr. Hansombody; yet that he expected
him is no less certain than that, while he spoke, Dr. Hansombody was
actually lifting the knocker of the front door.
How did this happen? The Major--so used was he to the phenomenon--
accepted it as a matter of course. Hansombody (good soul!) had a
wonderful knack of turning up when wanted. But what attracted him?
Was it perchance that magnetic force of will which our Major, and all
truly great men, unconsciously exert? No; the explanation was a
simpler one, though the Major would have been inexpressibly shocked
had he suspected it.
Miss Marty and Dr. Hansombody were mutually enamoured.
They never told their love. To acknowledge it nakedly to one
another--nay, even to themselves--had been treason. What?
Could Miss Marty disturb the comfort, could her swain destroy the
confidence, could they together forfeit the esteem, of their common
hero? In converse they would hymn antiphonally his virtues, his
graces of mind and person; even as certain heathen fanatics, wounding
themselves in honour of their idol, will drown the pain by loud
clashings of cymbals.
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