"Oh, how do you do? I'm glad to see you. Come in. Sit down."
"Why—why, what's the matter with you? You look sort of flustered. Anything gone askew? Maybe my visit is ill-timed. If I'm de trop, speak right up, and I'll take myself off."
"Oh, no, not at all; on the contrary. You're very welcome. It was very kind of you to come. I should have been sorry to go away without shaking hands with you. Here; take this chair; do."
"Thanks. Since you urge me, I will. But I say, old boy, you can't fool me. Something's up. That's as clear as daylight. You look—you look as though you'd got a challenge to fight a duel. If you need a second, I'm your man. Come; unburden your sorrowing soul. Tell me the story of your woes. Perhaps I can be of assistance to you. Pour thy griefs into my sympathetic ear." Palmer put his hand up to his ear, after the manner of deaf people.
Ormizon laughed. Then, gravely, "By Jove, Palmer, I don't know but I will," he said. "You're a man of good common sense. You may be able to advise me. I'm in the very devil of a fix. I—I'm the most miserable fellow on the surface of the earth."
"Advise you? Why, you've hit upon my very forte. In point of worldly wealth I'm as poor as Job's turkey; but in point of good advice I'm as rich as Croesus and as generous as Peter Cooper. Come; out with it. What's the row?"
"Well, Palmer, it's this. You know Mademoiselle Denise—Mademoiselle Personette?"
"I am honored with her acquaintance—yes. Well?"
"Well, I—I'm—as you'd say, I suppose—I'm head over ears in love with her."
"Ah? So? The frank confession does you proud. But is that all? For, to tell you the truth, that's no news to me."
"It isn't? You'd guessed it? Well, I suppose it was pretty evident. But—no, that isn't all. This afternoon I—I proposed to her—asked her to be my wife."
"Ah, I see. Popped the question, and got the mitten. Oh, well, you mustn't let that discourage you. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again."
"No. She accepted me."
"What! She did! You lucky dog! Well, I swan! Well, really, I don't see why that should make you feel so bad."
"No; but just hold on. After I left her, and came home, I found here, waiting for me, a letter from my mother, which said—which said that in case I married Mademoiselle Personette she—she'd stop my allowance, cut me out of her will, and—and never recognize me or have anything to do with me again."
"Oh! So that's the racket. . . . Still—well—but—but if you're really very much in love with her, I shouldn't think you'd let that stop you."
"I should say not. I'm not such a—such a sneak as that. No, indeed. So far as I'm concerned, that would have no more influence over me than the blowing of the breeze. But the point is—the question is—what will she—what will Denise say, when she finds it out?
