"As a rule (with its exceptions like all rules) my dear Madam" says the
Major, "they have honoured me with their acquaintance, and not
unfrequently with their confidence."

Watching the Major as he drooped his white head and stroked his black
mustachios and moped again, a thought which I think must have been going
about looking for an owner somewhere dropped into my old noddle if you
will excuse the expression.

"The walls of my Lodgings" I says in a casual way--for my dear it is of
no use going straight at a man who mopes--"might have something to tell
if they could tell it."

The Major neither moved nor said anything but I saw he was attending with
his shoulders my dear--attending with his shoulders to what I said. In
fact I saw that his shoulders were struck by it.

"The dear boy was always fond of story-books" I went on, like as if I was
talking to myself. "I am sure this house--his own home--might write a
story or two for his reading one day or another."

The Major's shoulders gave a dip and a curve and his head came up in his
shirt-collar. The Major's head came up in his shirt-collar as I hadn't
seen it come up since Jemmy went to school.

"It is unquestionable that in intervals of cribbage and a friendly
rubber, my dear Madam," says the Major, "and also over what used to be
called in my young times--in the salad days of Jemmy Jackman--the social
glass, I have exchanged many a reminiscence with your Lodgers."