"Thank you—I don't smoke cubas."
"Do you prefer a regalia?"
"Thank you, I have some here."
"Caramba! I have smoked them two feet long ere this."
"In Texas?"
"Yes."
"I thought so," replied Morley, laughing. He was in excellent spirits. A telegram to Acton-Rennel had announced that his cabin passage to the Isle of France had been secured on board the Hermione, immediately on receipt of his mandate, and added, that a letter, duly announcing the circumstance, had been posted for Laurel Lodge.
"I never received it, Hawkshaw—odd, isn't it?" said Morley; "but it matters nothing now."
Hawkshaw gave a bitter smile unnoticed. No wonder that Morley had never received it, as his quondam friend had found the letter referred to, in Mr. Basset's post-bag, which hung in the hall, and, after making himself master of the contents, had quietly put it in the fire, thinking by delay to create confusion, and, perhaps, stultify Morley's intentions altogether.
In his joy, honest, good-hearted Morley felt blandly disposed even to Hawkshaw, of whom he had such a constitutional mistrust. He had now an excellent opportunity for returning the ring, with which Ethel (whom Hawkshaw, incidentally, assured him was from home) had so unwisely entrusted to him; but in the height of his own satisfaction, he felt loth to mortify his luckless rival, and so delayed the matter for a time, while, smoking their cigars, they walked together slowly, side by side, up the hill, towards the rocks that overhung the sea, and border on the Yale of Acton.