“Not half so far as I wished it, my boy. That's all the satisfaction you 'll get from me.”
This was said with a certain irritation of manner that for a while imposed silence upon each.
“Have you got a cheroot?” asked Paten, after a while; and the other flung his cigar-case across the table without speaking.
“I ordered that fellow in Geneva to send me two thousand,” said Paten, laughing; “but I begin to suspect he had exactly as many reasons for not executing the order.”
“Marry that girl, Ludlow, and you 'll get your 'bacco, I promise you,” said Stocmar, gayly.
“That's all easy talking, my good fellow, but these things require time, opportunity, and pursuit. Now, who's to insure me that they 'd not find out all about me in the mean while? A woman does n't marry a man with as little solicitation as she waltzes with him, and people in real life don't contract matrimony as they do in the third act of a comic opera.”
“Faith, as regards obstacles, I back the stage to have the worst of it,” broke in Stocmar. “But whose cab is this in such tremendous haste,—Trover's? And coming up here too? What's in the wind now?”
He had but finished these words when Trover rushed into the room, his face pale as death, and his lips colorless.
“What's up?—what's the matter, man?” cried Stocmar.
“Ruin's the matter—a general smash in America—all securities discredited—bills dishonored—and universal failure.”