Oh yes, he was up. In fact, he had not been to bed. He had just come home. And here he was, close following on the heels of the message.
“Why what bloodshot, draggled, dishevelled spectacle is this!” cried Mortimer.
“Are my feathers so very much rumpled?” said Eugene, coolly going up to the looking-glass. They are rather out of sorts. But consider. Such a night for plumage!”
“Such a night?” repeated Mortimer. “What became of you in the morning?”
“My dear fellow,” said Eugene, sitting on his bed, “I felt that we had bored one another so long, that an unbroken continuance of those relations must inevitably terminate in our flying to opposite points of the earth. I also felt that I had committed every crime in the Newgate Calendar. So, for mingled considerations of friendship and felony, I took a walk.”