Little ill, sir?" asked Patching. The artist was sure to
observe and speak of any signs of illness on the faces of his friends
and acquaintances. Some people called him malevolent for it.
To be told that one looks pale, always makes one turn paler. Marcus,
extra sensitive on the point of looks, became quite pallid, and said,
with confusion:
"I have not been well for several days, and my rest was badly broken
last night."
Tiffles had also remarked the unusual deadly whiteness of his friend's
complexion, and the air of lassitude and unhappiness which pervaded his
face, but he would not have alluded to them for the world. He never made
impertinent observations of that sort.
"Unwell?" said Tiffles. "I had not noticed it. In the morning, all New
York looks as if it had just come out of a debauch. Wilkeson will pass,
I guess." This calumny upon the city was Tiffles's favorite bit of
satire, and it had cheered up many a poor fellow who thought himself
looking uncommonly haggard.
Marcus smiled languidly, and turned away his head with a sigh. As his
eyes swept about, they encountered the gaze of the man in citizen's
clothes, previously noticed.
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