“And he's alone, too?”
“No, sir. Mr. Crow, the painter, is to dine with him. He's making drawings for him of all the wonderful places down the coast.”
“Well, give us what we 're to have at once,” said Maurice, angrily. “The basket of wine was taken out of the gig?”
“Yes, sir; all right and ready for you; and barrin' the fish you 'll have an elegant dinner.”
This little annoyance over, the guests relished their fare like hungry men; nor, time and place considered, was it to be despised.
“Digestion is a great leveller.” Mr. Merl and Mr. Scan-Ian felt far more on an equality when, the dinner over and the door closed, they drew the table close to the fire, and drank to each other in a glass of racy port.
“Well, I believe a man might live here, after all,” said Merl, as he gazed admiringly on the bright hues of his variegated lower garments.
“I 'm proud to hear you say so,” said Scanlan; “for, of course, you've seen a deal of life; and when I say life, I mean fashion and high style,—nobs and swells.”
“Yes; I believe I have,” said Merl, lighting his cigar; “that was always my 'line.' I fancy there's few fellows going have more experience of the really great world than Herman Merl.”
“And you like it?” asked Maurice, confidentially.