Morton was walking slowly up the hall, conversing with an odd-looking couple—a heavy, thick set man, in the fantastic finery of a Broadway swell, and a woman of five feet ten, thin and gaunt, with a yellow complexion, and a pair of fierce, glittering eyes, like an Indian squaw in ill humor. She was gorgeous in silk, brocade, and diamonds, and her huge, gloveless, bony fingers sparkled with jewelry. Her husband, on his part, displayed a mighty breastpin, in the shape of a war horse rampant, in diamond frostwork.
"Mr. Meredith," murmured the horrified Mrs. Primrose, "pray who are those persons?"
"Aborigines from Red River. Mr. and Mrs. Major Orson, of Natchitoches. He is a speculator, I believe, of more wealth than reputation."
"And are they friends of Mr. Morton?"
"O, Morton is a student of humanity. He met them at the tea table, and thinks them remarkable specimens of natural history."
Mrs. Primrose did not hear this explanation. The trio had now approached within a few yards; and her whole attention was absorbed in listening to the high, penetrating voice of the female ogre.
"There's one great and glorious thing about Natchitoches," remarked Mrs. Orson.
"What's that?" asked Morton.
"You can get every thing there to eat that heart can wish."
"That's a fact," said the major; "there ain't no discount on that."