"My dear mother," chimed in her son—"it is all a mistake—Brail is not to blame, and no more is Listado—say, has Helen Hudson accepted Brail, or has she not?"
"She certainly has accepted him—on conditions."
Listado's eyes, during this colloquy, were riveted on Mrs Hudson's face. When she uttered these words, he slowly turned them on me, and while the tears hopped over his cheek, he advanced, and took my hand.
"Brail, I wish you joy—from my soul, I do—even although I—curse it, never mind—but, man, could you not take Sophie Duquesné?—yet—even at the eleventh hour, Benjamin?—it would mightily oblige me, do you know."
I smiled.
"Well, well, I have been a fool; and I have ill-used you, Brail, but I am sorry for it—so, God bless you, my dear boy—you are a fortunate fellow"—and thereupon, he ran out of the room, without saying good-by to any one.
Next morning, I had a visit from him, before I got out of my bed. He came into my room with a most ludicrous, serio-comic expression of countenance, and drawing a long sigh, sat down on a chair by my bedside without uttering a word.
As I had not forgotten his strange conduct the day before, I thought I would let him have his own way, and leave him to break ground first. He sat still about a minute longer, and then clasping his hands together, with his Barcelona most pathetically sticking out between his fingers—he turned round, and looked at me with his great prominent goggle eyes.
"Do I look as if I had been weeping, Benjamin—are my eyes bloodshot?"
"They are certainly inflamed," said I, rather shortly.