"Yes—which way did she go?"
"Why, sir—she went to Montreal," said the servant—"to Montreal, you know, sir," she repeated, in a mincing tone, bridling and blushing at the same time.
"To—where? what?" cried Jack, thunderstruck—"Montreal! Montreal! What the devil is the meaning of all that?" And Jack fairly gasped, and looked at me in utter bewilderment. And I looked back at him with emotions equal to his own. And we both stood, to use an expressive but not by any means classical word—dumfounded.
[Had a thunder-bolt burst—and all that sort of thing, you know, my boy.]
Jack was quite unable to utter another word. So I came to his help.
"I think you said your mistress went to Montreal?" said I, mildly and encouragingly, for the servant began to look frightened.
"Yes, sir."
"Will you be kind enough to tell me what she went there for? I wouldn't ask you, but it's a matter of some importance."
"What for, sir?" said the servant—and a very pretty blush came over her rather pretty face. "What for, sir? Why, sir—you know, sir—she went off, sir—on her—her—wedding-tower, sir."
"Her WHAT!!!" cried Jack, wildly.