"You wouldn't have had an evening at East Patten then, Fred," said the
major, with a laugh, as he passed the cigars, and lit one himself.
"Seriously, my boy, you must be more careful. You came here to spend a
pleasant three months with me, and the first time you're in society you
act, to a lady you never saw before, too, in such a way, that if it had
been any one but a lady of experience, she would have imagined you in
love with her."

"I _am_ in love with her," declared the young man, with a look which was
intended to be defiant, but which was noticeably shamedfaced. "I'm going
to tell her so, too--that is, I'm going to write her about it."

"Steady, Fred--steady!" urged the major, kindly. "She'd be more provoked
than pleased. Don't you suppose fifty men have worshiped her at first
sight? They have, and she knows it, too--but it hasn't troubled her mind
at all: handsome women know they turn men's heads in that way, and they
generally respect the men who are sensible enough to hold their tongues
about it, at least until there's acquaintance enough between them to
justify a little confidence."

"Major," said poor Fred, very meekly, almost piteously, "don't--don't
you suppose I _could_ make her care something for me?"

The major looked thoughtfully, and then tenderly, at the cigar he held
between his fingers. Finally he said, very gently:

"My dear boy, perhaps you could. Would it be fair, though? Love in
earnest means marriage. Would you torment a poor woman, who's lost one
husband, into wondering three-quarters of the time whether the scalp of
another isn't in the hands of some villainous Apache?"