" And so they had parted.
Mountjoy had taken the precaution of having his letters addressed to the
house of the friendly bootmaker; and now, as he was slowly pouring out
his first cup of coffee, and thinking how nearly it must be his last,
his father's letter was brought to him. The letter had been delayed one
day, as he himself had omitted to call for it. It was necessarily a sad
time for him. He was a man who fought hard against melancholy, taking it
as a primary rule of life that, for such a one as he had become, the
pleasures of the immediate moment should suffice. If one day, or better
still, one night of excitement was in store for him, the next day should
be regarded as the unlimited future, for which no man can be
responsible. But such philosophy will too frequently be insufficient for
the stoutest hearts. Mountjoy's heart would occasionally almost give
way, and then his thoughts would be dreary enough. Hunger, absolute
hunger, without the assured expectation of food, had never yet come upon
him; but in order to put a stop to its cravings, if he should find it
troublesome to bear, he had already provided himself with pistol and
bullets.
And now, with his cup of coffee before him, aromatic, creamy, and hot,
with a filleted sole rolled up before him on a little dish, three or
four plover's eggs, on which to finish, lying by, and, on the distance
of the table, a chasse of brandy, of which he already well knew the
virtues, he got his father's letter.
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