"Good morning, Ormiston. I had an idea I would find you here,
and - but what's the matter with you, man? Have you got the
plague? or has your mysterious inamorata jilted you? or what
other annoyance has happened to make you look as woebegone as old
King Lear, sent adrift by his tender daughters to take care of
himself?"
The individual addressed lifted his head, disclosing a dark and
rather handsome face, settled now into a look of gloomy
discontent. He slightly raised his hat as he saw who his
questioner was.
"Ah! it's you, Sir Norman! I had given up all notion of your
coming, and was about to quit this confounded babel - this
tumultuous den of thieves. What has detained you?"
"I was on duty at Whitehall. Are we not in time to keep our
appointment?"
"Oh, certainly! La Masque is at home to visitors at all hours,
day and night. I believe in my soul she doesn't know what sleep
means."
"And you are still as much in love with her as ever, I dare
swear! I have no doubt, now, it was of her you were thinking
when I came up. Nothing else could ever have made you look so
dismally woebegone as you did, when Providence sent me to your
relief.
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