Davis bounded on his chair, and glowered with a fearful stare at the speaker, who meanwhile drained the decanter into his glass with an unmoved serenity.
“Don't be angry, my ancient friend,” said he, blandly. “The cares of friendship, like the skill of a surgeon, must often pain to be serviceable. Happy let us call ourselves when no ruder hand wields the probe or the bistoury!”
“Make an end of canting, I want to speak to you about matters of moment. You will set out to-day, I hope.”
“Immediately after the marriage.”
“What road do you take?”
“Strasburg, Paris, Marseilles, whence direct to Constantinople by the first steamer.”
“After that?”
“Across the Black Sea to Balaklava.”
“But when do you reach the Crimea?”
“Balaklava is in the Crimea.”