"I thought you were talking of her. You said you were going to take her to England." "The widow? No," cried Jack, peevishly; "I meant Louie, of course. Who else could I mean? Louie. I said it would be far better for me and Louie if I went to Bombay." And with these words he flung himself impatiently back in the carriage and scowled at vacancy. And this was Jack. This was my broad-browed, frank-faced, golden-haired, bright, smiling, incoherent, inconsistent, inconsequential, light-hearted, hilarious Jack--the Jack who was once the joy of every company, rollicking, reckless, and without a care. To this complexion had he come at last. Oh, what a moral ruin was here, my countrymen! Where now were his jests and gibes--his wit, that was wont to set the table in a roar? Alas! poor Yorick! _Amour_! _amour_! _quand tu nous tiens_, who can tell what the mischief will become of us! Once it was "not wisely but too many"--now it was "not wisely but too well" --and this was the end of it. O Louie! O Jack! Is there no such thing as true Platonic love on earth? But there was not much time for Jack to scowl or for me to meditate. The widow did not live very far away, and a quarter of an hour was enough to bring us there. It was a handsome house. I knew it well. Jack knew it better. But it looked dark now, and rather gloomy. The shutters were closed, and there was no sign of life whatever. Jack stared at the house for a moment, and then jumped out. I followed. We hurried up the steps, and Jack gave a fierce pull at the bell, followed by a second and a third. At the third pull the door opened and disclosed a maid-servant. "Mrs. Finnimore?" said Jack, as he stepped into the hall--and then stopped. The servant seemed surprised. "Mrs. Finnimore?" said she. "Yes," said Jack. "Is she here?" "Here?" "Yes." "Why, sir--she's gone--" "Gone!" cried Jack. "Gone! Impossible! Why we drove straight here from St. Malachi's, and didn't meet her. Which street did she go?" "Which street, sir? St. Malachi's, sir?" repeated the servant, in bewilderment. "Yes--which way did she go?" "Why, sir--she went to Montreal," said the servant--"to Montreal, you know, sir," she repeated, in a mincing tone, bridling and blushing at the same time. "To--where? what?" cried Jack, thunderstruck--"Montreal! Montreal! What the devil is the meaning of all that?" And Jack fairly gasped, and looked at me in utter bewilderment. And I looked back at him with emotions equal to his own. And we both stood, to use an expressive but not by any means classical word--dumfounded. [Had a thunder-bolt burst--and all that sort of thing, you know, my boy.] Jack was quite unable to utter another word. So I came to his help. "I think you said your mistress went to Montreal?" said I, mildly and encouragingly, for the servant began to look frightened. "Yes, sir." "Will you be kind enough to tell me what she went there for? I wouldn't ask you, but it's a matter of some importance."