"It's nothing," repeated Morton; "it will be over in a minute. What were you saying?"
"About the fellows that have married,—O, Vinal,—I was saying that he had just got married."
"Well, what about it?"
"Why, nothing particular."
"When was it?"
"Last month."
"Within a month! Are you sure?"
"O, yes. I was in Boston myself at the time, and heard all about it. Her father was ill; so the marriage was private. Vinal is a sort of fellow that somehow I never cottoned to much. I don't think he's very disinterested. I like a fellow that will swear when he is angry, and not keep close shut up, like an oyster."
The tattle of his rustic companion was become intolerable to Morton. He had received his stab, and wished to hear no more. In a few minutes, he rose from the table. "Charley, I am sorry to leave you so suddenly, but I am not well. The fresh air and a hard walk are all that will set me up. I shall see you again."
"But where are you staying?"