“O-h! and where is he now!”
“In his room, sare.”
Over the chaos strode Ferrers, and opening the door of his friend’s dressing-room without ceremony, he saw Maltravers buried in a fauteuil, with his hands drooping on his knees, his head bent over his breast, and his whole attitude expressive of dejection and exhaustion.
“What is the matter, my dear Ernest? You have not killed a man in a duel?”
“No.”
“What then? Why are you going away, and whither?”
“No matter; leave me in peace.”
“Friendly!” said Ferrers; “very friendly! And what is to become of me—what companion am I to have in this cursed resort of antiquarians and lazzaroni? You have no feeling, Mr. Maltravers!”
“Will you come with me, then?” said Maltravers, in vain endeavouring to rouse himself.
“But where are you going?”