Suddenly the door of the dining-room was thrown open.
"Ah! there's Jenkins," exclaimed the Nabob, joyfully. "Hail, doctor, hail! How are you, my boy?"
A circular smile, a vigorous handshake for the host, and Jenkins took his seat opposite him, beside Monpavon and in front of a plate which a servant brought in hot haste, exactly as at a table-d'hôte. Amid those preoccupied, feverish faces, that one presented a striking contrast with its good-humor, its expansive smile, and the loquacious, flattering affability which makes the Irish to a certain extent the Gascons of Great Britain. And what a robust appetite! with what energy, what liberty of conscience, he managed his double row of white teeth, talking all the while.
"Well, Jansoulet, did you read it?"
"Read what, pray?"
"What! don't you know? Haven't you read what the Messager said about you this morning?"
Beneath the thick tan on his cheeks the Nabob blushed like a child, and his eyes sparkled with delight as he replied:
"Do you mean it? The Messager said something about me?"
"Two whole columns. How is it that Moëssard didn't show it to you?"
"Oh!" said Moëssard modestly, "it wasn't worth the trouble."