"At Blancard's. Good morning, old fellow."
CHAPTER L.
Fab. . . . Elle est——.
Sev. Quoi?
Fab. Mariée!
Sev. . . . . . Ce coup de foudre est grand!—Polyeucte.
The world's my oyster, which I with sword will open.—Henry IV.
Put money in thy purse; follow these wars.—Othello.
Morton walked down Broadway at a rapid pace, entered his hotel, mounted to his room, seated himself, rested his forehead on his hand, and, with fixed eyes and compressed lips, remained in this position for some minutes, motionless as if carved out of oak. Then, rising, he paced the room, buried his face in his hands, and groaned with irrepressible anguish. Suddenly the door was burst open, and an Irish servant, apparently in a great hurry, bolted in, and tossed a card on the table, saying at the same time,—"Gen'lman down stairs wants to see you."
Morton broke into a rage, to hide the traces of a different passion.
"Why do you come in without knocking? Learn better manners, or I shall teach them to you."
"I beg pardon, sir," said the servant, reduced at once to the depth of obsequiousness, "there's a gentleman, sir—an officer, sir,—would like to see you, sir."
"An officer!—I don't know any officers. There's some mistake."