It was evening, when Croyden returned to Hampton--an evening which
contained no suggestion of the Autumn he had left behind him on the
Eastern Shore. It was raw, and damp, and chill, with the presage of
winter in its cold; the leaves were almost gone from the trees, the
blackening hand of frost was on flower and shrubbery. As he passed up
the dreary, deserted street, the wind was whistling through the
branches over head, and moaning around the houses like spirits of the
damned.
He turned in at Clarendon--shivering a little at the prospect. He was
beginning to appreciate what a winter spent under such conditions
meant, where one's enjoyments and recreations are circumscribed by the
bounds of comparatively few houses and few people--people, he
suspected, who could not understand what he missed, of the hurly-burly
of life and amusement, even if they tried. Their ways were sufficient
for them; they were eminently satisfied with what they had; they could
not comprehend dissatisfaction in another, and would have no patience
with it.
He could imagine the dismalness of Hampton, when contrasted with the
brightness of Northumberland. The theatres, the clubs, the constant
dinners, the evening affairs, the social whirl with all that it
comprehended, compared with an occasional dinner, a rare party,
interminable evenings spent, by his own fireside, alone! Alone! Alone!
To be sure, Miss Carrington, and Miss Borden, and Miss Lashiel, and
Miss Tilghman, would be available, when they were home. But the winter
was when they went visiting, he remembered, from late November until
early April, and, at that period, the town saw them but little. There
was the Hampton Club, of course, but it was worse than nothing--an
opportunity to get mellow and to gamble, innocent enough to those who
were habituated to it, but dangerous to one who had fallen, by
adversity, from better things....
However, Macloud would be there, shortly, thank God! And the dear girls
were not going for a week or so, he hoped. And, when the worst came, he
could retire to the peacefulness of his library and try to eke out a
four months' existence, with the books, and magazines and papers.
Moses held open the door, with a bow and a flourish, and the lights
leaped out to meet him. It was some cheer, at least, to come home to a
bright house, a full larder, faithful servants--and supper ready on the
table, and tuned to even a Clubman's taste.
"Moses, do you know if Miss Carrington's at home?" he asked, the coffee
on and his cigar lit.
"Yass, seh! her am home, seh, I seed she herse'f dis mornin' cum down
de parf from de front poach wid de dawg, seh."
Croyden nodded and went across the hall to the telephone.
Miss Carrington, herself, answered his call.--Yes, she intended to be
home all evening. She would be delighted to see him and to hear a full
account of himself.
He was rather surprised at his own alacrity, in finishing his cigar and
changing his clothes--and he wondered whether it was the girl, or the
companionship, or the opportunity to be free of himself? A little of
all three, he concluded.... But, especially, the _girl_, as she came
from the drawing-room to meet him.
"So you have really returned," she said, as he bowed over her slender
fingers. "We were beginning to fear you had deserted us."
"You are quite too modest," he replied. "You don't appreciate your own
attractions."
The "you" was plainly singular, but she refused to see it.
"Our own attractions require us to be modest," she returned; "with
a--man of the world."
"Don't!" he laughed. "Whatever I may have been, I am, now, a man of
Hampton."