Mr. Checkynshaw folded up the translation, and put it into his pocket; and, promising to send her some more letters in a few days, he took his leave. The banker went back to his private office. After ransacking his papers for a long time, he found an old letter directed to him, in the care of the firm, postmarked at Paris, with a French postage stamp upon it. Into the envelope of this letter he thrust the translation which Maggie had made.
The banker seated himself in his arm-chair, put his feet on the desk, and lighted a cigar. Mr. Checkynshaw held to the pernicious belief that smoking soothed the nerves of an excited man. He smoked and thought for a while, till his meditations were disturbed by the entrance of Mrs. Wittleworth and Fitz.
"I hope you will excuse me for coming again so soon, Mr. Checkynshaw," said Mrs. Wittleworth, timidly.
"I hope you'll excuse me too," added Fitz, thrusting his thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest, and pursing up his under lip, as he had a habit of doing when he particularly realized his own importance.
He stood with his hat on his head—a narrow-brimmed "stove-pipe," which young men were more in the habit of wearing at that period than at the present time. He was the impersonation of impudence and self-conceit, and the banker looked angry enough to annihilate him.
"I thought I would come and see if you had anything to show me from Marguerite," continued Mrs. Wittleworth, after the banker had bestowed a look of supreme contempt upon Fitz.
"I have something to show you," replied Mr. Checkynshaw, taking the old envelope which contained Maggie's translation from his pocket, and handing it to her.
Fitz was rather taken aback by this ready reply, and by the sight of the musty envelope. His nether lip actually returned to its normal position under the shock.
"This is from Marguerite—is it?" asked Mrs. "Wittleworth.
"It is from Marguerite," replied Mr. Checkynshaw.