“Yours truly,
“W. Ingalls.”
The face of Jones was overspread with smiles as he read this epistle, and he felt at least a foot taller. He could conceive of nothing more glorious than to be introduced to a foreign nobleman. Once in his life it had been his privilege to make the acquaintance of a brigadier-general, who had given him two fingers to shake, and said, “I am glad to meet you, sir.” Most of the fashionable acquaintances of whom he boasted had no existence save in his imagination, but this general was a reality; he was only a general of volunteers, but that made no difference to Alphonso; he had managed hundreds of times to make capital of his greatness in some such way as this: “My friend, General Smith, remarked to me one day;” or, “Speaking of brave men reminds me of my intimate friend, General Smith.” But even General Smith was not for a moment to be compared to the Count Ernest de Montmorency; there was something peculiarly high-toned in the name, Alphonso thought. So thought Mr. Ingalls, or he would have invented some other.
Alphonso was anxious to communicate to some one else the honor in store for him; he would like to have gone to his employer at once, and said, “Mr. Simpson, I am to meet the Count de Montmorency this evening.” This, however, even to Alphonso, seemed rather an abrupt and uncalled-for announcement, and he had to consider how best to manage the matter, for he was determined that Mr. Simpson should know it. It was not entirely easy, but finally a bright and satisfactory idea dawned upon the happy Jones.
He went up to the desk, behind which his employer, a stout, practical man of business, was sitting, and coughed by the way of arresting his attention.
“Eh, Mr. Jones, did you wish to speak to me?” inquired Mr. Simpson.
“Yes, sir,” said Alphonso; “would you be kind enough to let me leave the store half an hour earlier than usual?”
“If you have a good reason, Mr. Jones; are you sick?”
“No, sir, my health is excellent, thank you. The fact is, sir, I have an invitation to meet the noble count, Count Ernest de Montmorency, this evening, and—”
“The—what?” exclaimed his employer, arching his brows.