Mrs. Major, that masterly woman, was a distressed gentlewoman. The
death of her husband, a warehouse clerk, by acute alcoholic poisoning,
seems to have given her her first chance of displaying those strong
qualities which ultimately became her chief characteristic. And she
was of those to whom plan of action comes instantly upon the arrival
of opportunity. With lightning rapidity this woman welded chance and
action; with unflagging energy and with dauntless perseverance used
the powerful weapon thus contrived.

The case of her husband's death may be instanced. Her hysterical
distress on the day of the funeral (a matter that would have
considerably surprised the late Mr. Major) was exchanged on the
following morning for acute physical distress resulting from the means
by which, overnight, she had tried to assuage her grief. Noticing, as
she dressed, the subdued and martyrlike air that her face wore,
noticing also her landlady's evident sympathy with the gentle voice
and manner which her racking head caused her to adopt, Mrs. Major saw
at once the valuable aid to her future which the permanent wearing of
these characteristics might be. From that moment she took up the role
of distressed gentlewoman--advertised by tight-fitting black, by
little sighs, and by precise, subdued voice,--and in this guise
sought employment at an Agency. The agency sent her to be interviewed
by Mr. Marrapit. Ushered into the study, she, in a moment of masterly
inspiration, murmured "The sweet! Ah, the sweet!" when viciously
scratched by the Rose of Sharon, and upon those words walked directly
in to Mr. Marrapit's heart.

He required a lady--a _lady_ (Mrs. Major smiled deprecatingly) who
should devote herself to his cats. Did Mrs. Major like cats? Ah, sir,
she adored cats; her late husband--Words, at the recollection, failed