"'Solomon' and 'Hymen'; they certainly suggest--they would almost seem to give promise of, at least, a _dual_ destiny." "You mark my words," said Miss Pescod.

"That man has been crossed in love." "But _who_ ?" asked Miss Sally, her eyes widening in speculation.
"_Who_ could have done such a thing ?" "My dear, I understand there are women in London capable of anything." The Major, you must know, had spent the greater part of his life in the capital as a silk-mercer and linen-draper--I believe, in the Old Jewry; at any rate, not far from Cheapside.

He had left us at the age of sixteen to repair the fortunes of his family, once opulent and respected, but brought low by his great-grandfather's rash operations in South Sea stock.

In London, thanks to an ingratiating manner with the sex on which a linen-draper relies for patronage, he had prospered, had amassed a competence, and had sold his business to retire to his native town, as Shakespeare retired to Stratford-on-Avon, and at about the same period of life.
Had the Major in London been crossed in love?
No; I incline to believe that Miss Pescod was mistaken.

That hearts, up there, fluttered for a man of his presence is probable, nay certain.
In port and even in features he bore a singular likeness to the Prince Regent.