"Oh, yes," said Philip, painfully mystified.
" The fact is," said the Major, leaning over, and lowering his voice confidentially, "Mrs. Dodd was in love with him—as far, that is, as a woman can be in love with a man in that state."
"Is it possible?" said Philip, disgusted and revolted at he knew not what; for his companion's allusions were an enigma.
"Oh, I was at Sharon for three weeks," the Major continued; "I went up for my sister-in-law; I saw it all. I wanted to bring poor Graham away, but he woulnd't listen to me—not that he wasn't very quiet. He made no talk, and opened himself only to Mrs. Dodd and me—we lived in the same house, you know. Of course, I very soon saw through it, and I felt very sorry for poor Miss Congreve. She bore it very well, but it must have been very annoying."
Philip started up from his chair. "For heaven's sake, Major Dodd," he cried, "what are you talking about?"
The Major stared a moment, and then burst into a peal of laughter. "You agree, then, with Mrs. Dodd?" he said, recovering himself.
"I understand Mrs. Dodd no better than I do you."
"Why, my dear sir," said the Major, rising to his feet and extending his hand, "I beg a hundred pardons. But you must excuse me if I adhere to my opinion."
"First, please, be so good as to inform me of your opinion."
"Why, sir, the whole story is simply bosh."
"Good heavens," cried Philip, "that's no opinion!"
"Well, then, sir, if you will have it: the man was as mad as a March hare."
"Oh!" cried Philip. His exclamation said a great many things, but the Major took it as a protest.
"He was a monomaniac."
Philip said nothing.
"The idea is not new to you?"
"Well," said Philip, "to tell the truth, it is.
"Well," said the Major, with a courteous flourish, "there you have it—for nothing."
Philip drew a long breath. "Ah, no!" he said, gravely, "not for nothing." He stood silent for some time, with his eyes fixed on the deck. Major Dodd puffed his cigar and eyed him askance. At last Philip looked up. "And Henrietta Congreve?"
"Henrietta Congreve," said the major, with military freedom and gallantry, "is the sweetest girl in the world. Don't talk to me! I know her."
"She never became engaged to Graham?"
"Engaged? She never looked at him."
"But he was in love with her."
"Ah, that was his own business. He worried her to death. She tried gentleness and kindness—it made him worse. Then, when she declined to see him, the poor fellow swore that she had jilted him. It was a fixed idea. He got Mrs. Dodd to believe it."
Philip's silent reflections—the hushed eloquence of his amazed unburdened heart—we have no space to interpret. But as the major lightened the load with one hand, he added to it with the other. Philip had never pitied his friend till now. "I knew him well," he said, aloud. "He was the best of men. She might very well have cared for him."
