"Too gloomy!" exclaimed the cook, as he filled himself up another glass of wine. "Too gloomy! My dear, sir, you don't know how I loved that girl—you don't know how I—I—But it is no matter now—all that is past. Oh God! that she should be false to me—she of all persons in the great world!"
"And so you will let this little disappointment of the heart, place you in your youth quite beside all possible enjoyment? Is this wise, sir? Is it even manly?"
The poor cook was silent for a few moments, and then in a voice of deep emotion, he said—
"Sir, you don't know how much I loved her. You do not know how I pictured to myself happiness with her alone. You do not know, sir, how, even when death stared me in the face, I thought of her and her only, and how—But no matter—no matter, sir. She is false, and it is madness to speak of her. Let her go, sir. It is just possible that in the time to come, I may outlive the despair that now fills my heart."
"You surely will."
"I do not think it. But I will hope that I may."
"And have you really no hope—no innate lurking supposition in your mind, that you may be doing her an injustice in your suspicions of her faith?"
"Suspicions?"
"Ay, sir, suspicions, for even you must admit that you know nothing."
"Know nothing, sir?"