“Yes.”
“And who is this happy husband, this time?” asked he, flippantly.
“I am,” replied Norwood, in a low and solemn voice.
“You! you! I never thought—never suspected you of being married, Norwood. Pray be a little more explicit. Let me hear the whole story.”
“Later on, not now. I want to think of something else at this moment Are your pistols fine in the trigger?”
“Excessively so; a fly would almost suffice to move them. Is he English?”
“No.”
“Not a countryman of my own, I hope?”
“No. It is Midchekoff, the Russian.”
“Diantre! what a mark to shoot at! But they tell me that he never does go out,—that he refuses this kind of thing.”