"He said Mr. Morton, sir. This is his card, sir."
Morton looked at the card, and read the name of his classmate Rosny.
"Very well. Ask the gentleman to come up.—No,—here,"—as the servant was retreating along the passage,—"where is he?"
"In the reading room, sir."
"Tell him I will come down in a moment."
"Yes, sir, I will, sir."
Morton adjusted his dress, strove to banish from his features all traces of the emotion which had just overwhelmed him, went down stairs, and met Rosny with an air of as much cordiality as if there were nothing in his mind but the pleasure of seeing an old friend. Rosny, his first welcome over, surveyed him from head to foot.
"A good deal changed! Thinner,—darker complexioned, decidedly older. And yet you've weathered it well. It's a thing that I could never stand,—to be boxed up in four stone walls. I would throttle the jailer first, and then knock my brains out against the stones."
"Did Shingles tell you of my being here?"
"Yes, I met him just now, with his eyes bigger than ever. When I saw him making a dive at me across the street, among the omnibuses and carriages, I knew that something extraordinary was to pay."