How they left the good yacht _Streak_, and how they bade a hearty
farewell to that old sea lion Captain Sturleson, and how they went
through the hundred and one formalities of the custom-house, and the
thousand and one informalities of its officials, are matters of interest
indeed, but not of history. There are moments in a man's existence when
the act of conveying half a dozen sovereigns to the pocket of that stern
monitor of good faith, the brass-buttoned custom-house officer with the
tender conscience, is of more importance to salvation than women's love
or the Thirty-nine Articles. All this they did. Nor were they spared by
the great tormentor of the West, who bristleth with the fretful quill,
whose ears surround us in the night-time, and whose voice is as the
voice of the charmer, the reporter of the just and the unjust, but
principally of the latter. And Mr. Barker made an appointment with the
Duke, and took a tender farewell of the three ladies, and promised to
call on Claudius in the afternoon, and departed. But the rest of the
party went to a famous old hotel much affected by Englishmen, and whose
chief recommendation in their eyes is that there is no elevator, so that
they can run upstairs and get out of breath, and fancy themselves at
home. Of course their apartments had been secured, and had been waiting
for them a week, and the Countess was glad to withdraw for the day into
the sunny suite over the corner that was hers. As for Miss Skeat, she
went to the window and stayed there, for America was quite different
from what she had fancied. Claudius descended to the lower regions, and
had his hair cut; and the cook and the bar-keeper and the head "boots,"
or porter, as he called himself, all came and looked in at the door of
the barber's shop, and stared at the huge Swede. And the barber walked
reverently round him with scissors and comb, and they all agreed that
Claudius must be Mr. Barnum's new attraction, except the head porter--no
relation of an English head porter--who thought it was "Fingal's babby,
or maybe the blessed Sint Pathrick himself." And the little boy who
brushed the frequenters of the barber's shop could not reach to
Claudius's coat collar, so that the barber had to set a chair for him,
and so he climbed up.
The Duke retired also to the depths of his apartments, and his servant
arrayed him in the purple and stove-pipe of the higher civilisation. And
before long each of the ladies received a large cardboard box full of
fresh-cut flowers, sent by Mr. Barker of course; and the Duke, hearing
of this from his man, sent "his compliments to Lady Victoria, and would
she send him a rose for his coat?" So the Duke sallied forth on foot,
and the little creases in his clothes showed that he had just arrived.
But he did not attract any attention, for the majority of the population
of New York have "just arrived." Besides, he had not far to go. He had a
friend in town who lived but a few steps from the hotel, and his first
move on arriving was generally to call there.
Claudius waited a short time to see whether Mr. Barker would come; but
as Claudius rarely waited for anybody, he soon grew impatient, and
squeezing himself into a cab, told the driver to take him to Messrs.
Screw and Scratch in Pine Street. He was received with deference, and
treated as his position demanded. Would he like to see Mr. Silas B.
Barker senior? Very natural that he should want to make the acquaintance
of his relative's old friend and partner. Mr. Screw was out, yes--but
Mr. Scratch would accompany him. No trouble at all. Better "go around
right off," as Mr. Barker would probably go to Newport by the boat that
evening. So they went "around right away," and indeed it was a circular
journey. Down one elevator, through a maze of corridors, round crowded
corners, through narrow streets, Claudius ploughing his way through
billows of curbstone brokers, sad and gay, messenger-boys, young clerks,
fruit vendors, disreputable-looking millionaires and gentlemanly-looking
scamps, newspaper-boys, drunken Irishmen, complacent holders of
preferred, and scatterbrained speculators in wild-cat, an atmosphere of
tobacco smoke, dust, melons, and unintelligible jargon--little Mr.
Scratch clinging to his client's side, nodding furiously at every other
face he saw, and occasionally shouting a word of outlandish etymology,
but of magic import. Claudius almost thought it would be civil to offer
to carry the little man, but when he saw how deftly Mr. Scratch got in a
foot here and an elbow there, and how he scampered over any little bit
of clear pavement, the Doctor concluded his new acquaintance was
probably used to it. More elevators, more passages, a glass door, still
bearing the names "Barker and Lindstrand," and they had reached their
destination.
The office was on the second floor, with large windows looking over the
street; there were several people in the room they first entered, and
the first person Claudius saw was Mr. Barker junior, his friend.
"Well," said Barker, "so you have found us out. That's right. I was
coming round to see you afterwards, for I did not suppose you would like
to face 'the street' alone. Father," he said, turning to a thickset man
with white hair and bushy eyebrows, "this is Dr. Claudius, Mr.
Lindstrand's nephew."
The old gentleman looked up keenly into Claudius's face, and smiled
pleasantly as he put out his hand. He said a few words of cordial
welcome, and seemed altogether a sturdy, hearty, hardworking man of
business--rather a contrast to his son. He hoped that Claudius would
come on to Newport with Silas, as he wanted to have a long talk with
him. The old gentleman was evidently very busy, and his son took
Claudius in charge.
"What is that?" asked the Doctor, looking curiously at a couple of
wheels that unwound unceasingly long strips of white paper. The paper
passed through a small instrument, and came out covered with
unintelligible signs, coiling itself in confusion into a waste-basket
below.
"That has driven more men to desperation, ruin, and drink, than all the
other evils of humanity put together," said Barker. "That is the
ticker."
"I perceive that it ticks," said Claudius. And Barker explained how
every variation in the market was instantly transmitted to every place
of business, to every club, and to many private houses in New York, by
means of a simple arrangement of symbols--how "Gr. S." meant Green
Swash, and "N.P. pr." "North Pacific, preferred," and many other things.
Claudius thought it an ingenious contrivance, but said it must be very
wearing on the nerves.
"It is the pulse of New York," said Barker. "It is the croupier calling
out from morning till night 'trente-sept, rouge, impair,' and then
'Messieurs faites votre jeu--le jeu est fait.' When stock goes down you
buy, when it goes up you sell. That is the whole secret."
"I think it is very like gambling," said Claudius.
"So it is. But we never gamble here, though we have a ticker to see what
other people are doing. Besides, it tells you everything. Horse-racing,
baseball, steamers, births, deaths, and marriages; corn, wheat, tobacco,
and cotton. Nobody can live here without a ticker."
And after this they went out into the street again, and Mr. Scratch took
off his hat to Claudius, which is the highest token of unusual esteem
and respect of which "the street" is capable, and in a moment the heels
of his boots were seen disappearing into the dense crowd. Claudius and
Barker walked on, and crossed Broadway; a few steps farther, and the
Doctor was brought face to face with the triumph of business over
privacy--the elevated railway. He had caught a glimpse of portions of it
in the morning, but had supposed the beams and trestles to be
scaffoldings for buildings. He stood a few moments in profound thought,
contemplating and comprehending this triumph of wheels.
"It is a great invention," he said quietly. And when they were seated in
the long airy car, he looked out of the window, and asked whether the
people in the first stories of the houses did not find it very
disagreeable to have trains running by their windows all day.
"The social and municipal economy of New York," explained Mr. Barker,
"consists in one-third of the population everlastingly protesting
against the outrageous things done by the other two-thirds. One-third
fights another third, and the neutral third takes the fees of both
parties. All that remains is handed over to the deserving poor."
"That is the reason, I suppose, why there are so few poor in New York,"
observed the Doctor with a smile.
"Exactly," said Barker; "they go West."
"I would like to discuss the political economy of this country with you,
when I have been here six months."
"I hope you will not. And when you have been here six months you will be
willing to pay a large sum rather than discuss it with any one."
And so they went up town, and Claudius watched everything with interest,
and occasionally made a remark. Barker was obliged to go on, and he put
Claudius out on the platform at the station nearest his hotel, and which
was in fact at the same cross-street. As Claudius ascended the steps he
was overtaken by the Duke, who was breathless with running.
"I--am afraid--it is too late," he panted; "come along," and he seized
Claudius by the arm and dragged him to the corner of Fifth Avenue,
before he could ask any questions.
"What is the matter?" asked the Doctor, looking about.
"He is gone," said the Duke, who had recovered his speech, "I knew he
would, but I thought there was time. I was with a friend of mine, and I
had just left him when I saw you, and as I have asked him to dinner I
wanted to introduce you first. But he is always in such a hurry. Nowhere
to be seen. Probably down town by this time." They turned back and went
in. The Duke asked for the ladies. The Countess and her companion had
gone to drive in the park, but Lady Victoria was upstairs.
"Vick, I am going to have a man to dinner--of course we will all dine
together the first night ashore--a man you have heard me speak of; you
will like him amazingly."
"Who is he?"
"He is the uncle of the whole human race."
"Including the peerage?" laughed Lady Victoria.
"Peerage? I should think so. The whole of Debrett and the _Almanach de
Gotha_. Nobility and gentry, the Emperor of China and the North American
Indians."
"That will suit Miss Skeat. She is always talking about the North
American Indians. I think I know who it is."
"Of course you do, and now he is coming." There was a pause. "Vick, may
I smoke?"
"Oh yes, if you like." His Grace lit a cigarette.
"Vick, I am afraid you have had a dreadfully stupid time of it on this
trip. I am so sorry. Those people turned out rather differently from
what I had expected." The Duke was fond of his sister, though she was
much younger than he, and he began to reflect that she had been poorly
provided for, as he had engaged Barker most of their time.
"Not at all. You know I am so fond of the sea and the open air, and I
have enjoyed it all so much. Besides--"
"It is awfully good of you to say so, my dear, but I don't believe a
word of it. 'Besides'--you were going to say something."
"Was I? Oh yes. Besides, you could not have had another man, you know,
because it would have spoiled the table."
"No, but I was so selfish about Barker, because he can play cards, and
Claudius would not, or could not."
"I am not sorry for that, exactly," said Lady Victoria. "You remember,
we talked about him once. I do not like Mr. Barker very much."
"Oh, he is no end of a good fellow in his way," said her brother. "Have
you--a--any reason for not liking him, Vick?"
"I think he is spiteful. He says such horrid things."
"Does he? What about?" said the Duke indifferently, as he tore a bit of
charred paper from the end of his cigarette, which had burned badly. She
did not answer at first. He inspected the cigarette, puffed it into
active life again, and looked up.
"What about, Vick?"
"About his friend--about Doctor Claudius. I like Doctor Claudius." Lady
Victoria smoothed her rebellious brown hair at the huge over-gilt
pier-glass of the little drawing-room which she and Margaret had in
common.
"I like him too," said the Duke. "He is a gentleman. Why don't you do
your hair like the American women--all fuzzy, over your eyes? I should
think it would be much less trouble."
"It's not neat," said her ladyship, still looking into the glass. Then
suddenly, "Do you know what I think?"
"Well?"
"I believe Mr. Barker would like to marry Margaret himself."
"Pshaw! Victoria, don't talk nonsense. Who ever heard of such a thing!
The Duke rose and walked once up and down the room; then he sat down
again in the same place. He was not pleased at the suggestion.
"Why is it such nonsense?" she asked.
"Any number of reasons. Besides, she would not have him."
"That would not prevent him from wishing to marry her."
"No, of course not, but--well, it's great stuff." He looked a little
puzzled, as if he found it hard to say exactly why he objected to the
idea.
"You would be very glad if Claudius married her, would you not?" asked
his sister.
"Glad--I don't know--yes, I suppose so."
"But you pretend to like Mr. Barker a great deal more than you like
Doctor Claudius," said she argumentatively.
"I know him better," said the Duke; "I have known Barker several years."
"And he is rich--and that, and why should he not think of proposing to
Margaret?"
"Because--well I don't know, but it would be so deuced inappropriate,"
in which expression the honest-hearted Englishman struck the truth,
going for it with his head down, after the manner of his people.
"At first he was very nice," said Lady Victoria, who had gained a point,
though for what purpose she hardly knew; "but after a while he began to
say disagreeable things. He hinted in all sorts of ways that Claudius
was not exactly a gentleman, and that no one knew where he came from,
and that he ought not to make love to Margaret, and so on, till I wanted
to box his ears;" and she waxed warm in her wrath, which was really due
in great part to the fact that Mr. Barker was personally not exactly to
her taste. If she had liked him she would have thought differently of
the things he said. But her brother was angry too by this time, for he
remembered a conversation he had had with Barker on the same topic.
"I told Barker once that Claudius was a gentleman, every inch of him,
and I should think that was enough. As if I did not know--it's too bad,
upon my word!" And the ducal forehead reddened angrily. The fact was
that both he and his sister had taken an unaccountable fancy to this
strange Northman, with his quiet ways and his unaffected courtesy, and
at the present moment they would have quarrelled with their best friends
rather than hear a word against him. "My guest, too, and on my yacht,"
he went on; and it did his sister good to see him angry--"it's true he
brought him, and introduced him to me." Then a bright idea struck him.
"And if Claudius were not a gentleman, what the deuce right had Barker
to bring him to me at all, eh? Wasn't it his business to find out? My
word! I would like to ask him that, and if I find him I will." Lady
Victoria had no intention of making mischief between her brother and Mr.
Barker. But she did not like the American, and she thought Barker was
turning the Duke into a miner, or a farmer, or a greengrocer, or
something--it was not quite clear. But she wished him out of the way,
and fate had given her a powerful weapon. It was just that sort of
double-handedness that the Duke most hated of all things in the earth.
Moreover, he knew his sister never exaggerated, and that what she had
told him was of necessity perfectly true.
Woe to Mr. Silas B. Barker junior if he came in the Duke's way that
evening!
"I suppose he is coming to dinner?" said the Duke after a pause, during
which his anger had settled into a comfortable ferocity.
"No," said Lady Victoria; "he sent some flowers and a note of regret."
"Well--I am glad of that. Would you like to go for a drive, Vick?"
"Yes, of all things. I have not been here since I was married"--which
was about eighteen months, but she had already caught that matronly
phrase--"and I want to see what they have been doing to the Park."
"All right. We'll take Claudius, if he is anywhere about the place."
"Of course," said Lady Victoria. And so the brother and sister prepared
to soothe their ruffled feelings by making much of the man who was "a
gentleman." But they were right, for Claudius was all they thought him,
and a great deal more too, as they discovered in the sequel.
Having driven in the Park, the Duke insisting that Claudius should sit
in the place of honour with Lady Victoria, and having criticised to
their satisfaction the few equipages they met--for it was too early for
New York--they went back to their hotel, and dispersed to dress for
dinner. The Duke, as he had told his sister, had invited his friend to
dine. They all sat together waiting his arrival. Punctual to the moment,
the door opened, and Mr. Horace Bellingham beamed upon the assembled
party. Ay, but he was a sight to do good to the souls of the hungry and
thirsty, and of the poor, and in misery!
He requires description, not that any pen can describe him, but no one
ever saw him who did not immediately wish to try. He was short,
decidedly; but a broad deep chest and long powerful arms had given him
many an advantage over taller adversaries in strange barbarous lands. He
was perfectly bald, but that must have been because Nature had not the
heart to cover such a wonderful cranium from the admiring gaze of
phrenologists. A sweeping moustache and a long imperial of snowy white
sat well on the ruddy tan of his complexion, and gave him an air at once
martial and diplomatic. He was dressed in the most perfect of London
clothes, and there were superb diamonds in his shirt, while a priceless
sapphire sparkled, in a plain gold setting, on his broad, brown hand. He
is the only man of his time who can wear precious stones without
vulgarity. He moves like a king and has the air of the old school in
every gesture. His dark eyes are brighter than his diamonds, and his
look, for all his white beard and seventy years, is as young and fresh
as the rose he wears in his coat.
There are some people who turn gray, but who do not grow hoary, whose
faces are furrowed but not wrinkled, whose hearts are sore wounded in
many places, but are not dead. There is a youth that bids defiance to
age, and there is a kindness which laughs at the world's rough usage.
These are they who have returned good for evil, not having learned it as
a lesson of righteousness, but because they have no evil in them to
return upon others. Whom the gods love die young, and they die young
because they never grow old. The poet, who at the verge of death said
this, said it of, and to, this very man.
The Duke went through the introductions, first to the Countess, then to
Miss Skeat, then to his sister, and last of all to Claudius, who had
been intently watching the newcomer. Mr. Bellingham paused before
Claudius, and looked up in a way peculiarly his own, without raising his
head. He had of course heard in New York of the strange fortune that had
befallen Claudius on the death of the well-known Mr. Lindstrand, and now
he stood a minute trying to take the measure of the individual before
him, not in the least overcome by the physical proportions of the outer
man, but struck by the intellectual face and forehead that surmounted
such a tower of strength.
"I was in Heidelberg myself--a student," said he, his face lighting up
with coming reminiscences, "but that was long before you were born,
fifty years ago."
"I fancy it is little changed," said Claudius.
"I would like to go back to the Badischer Hof. I remember once--" but he
broke off short and turned to the Countess, and sat down beside her. He
knew all her people in America and her husband's people abroad. He
immediately began telling her a story of her grandmother, with a _verve_
and graphic spirit that enchanted Margaret, for she liked clever old
men. Besides he is not old. It is not so long since--well, it is a long
story. However, in less than one minute the assembled guests were
listening to the old-time tale of Margaret's ancestress, and the waiter
paused breathless on the threshold to hear the end, before he announced
dinner.
There are two very different ways of dining--dining with Mr. Bellingham,
and dining without him. But for those who have dined with him, all
other prandial arrangements are an empty sham. At least so Claudius said
to Margaret in an aside, when they got to the fruit. And Margaret, who
looked wonderfully beautiful with a single band of gold through her
black hair, laughed her assent, and said it was hopeless for the men of
this day to enter the lists against the veterans of the _ancien régime_.
And Claudius was not in the least hurt by the comparison, odious though
it would have been to Mr. Barker, had he been there. Claudius had plenty
of vanity, but it did not assume the personal type. Some people call a
certain form of vanity pride. It is the same thing on a larger scale.
Vanity is to pride what nervousness is to nerve, what morbid conscience
is to manly goodness, what the letter of the law is to the spirit.
Before they rose from the table, Mr. Bellingham proposed that they
should adjourn to Newport on the following day. He said it was too early
to be in New York and that Newport was still gay; at all events, the
weather promised well, and they need not stay more than twenty-four
hours unless they pleased. The proposition was carried unanimously, the
Duke making a condition that he should be left in peace and not
"entertained in a handsome manner by the _élite_ of our Newport
millionaires"--as the local papers generally have it. Lady Victoria
would not have objected to the operation of "being entertained" by
Newport, for it amused her to see people, but of course she would enjoy
herself very well without it. She always enjoyed herself, even when she
went for a walk in the rain on a slippery Yorkshire road, all bundled up
in waterproofs and hoods and things for her poor people--she enjoyed it
all.
As for Claudius, he knew that if he went to Newport he must of necessity
stay with the Barkers, but as he had not yet learned to look at Mr.
Barker in the light of a rival, he thought this would be rather
convenient than otherwise. The fact that he would be within easy reach
of Margaret was uppermost in his mind.
During the last two days his relations with her had been of the
happiest. There was an understanding between them, which took the place
of a great deal of conversation. Claudius felt that his error in
speaking too boldly had been retrieved, if not atoned for, and that
henceforward his position was assured. He was only to be a friend, it
was true, but he still felt that from friendship to love was but a step,
and that the time would come. He thought of the mighty wooings of the
heroes of his Northern home, and he felt in him their strength and their
constancy. What were other men that he should think of them? He was her
accepted friend of all others. She had said she hoped to find in him
what she had never found before; and were not her words "always,
always!" still ringing in his ears? She had found it then in him, this
rare quality of friendship; she had found more,--a man who was a friend
and yet a lover, but who could curb the strong passion to the semblance
and docility of the gentler feeling. And when at last she should give
the long-desired sign, the single glance that bids love speak, she would
find such a lover as was not even dreamt of among the gods of the
Greeks, nor yet among berserk heroes of ice and storm and battle. He
felt to-day that he could endure to the end, for the end was worthy all
endurance.
And now he sat by her side and looked down into her face when she spoke,
and they laughed together. Verily was Claudius the proudest man in all
earth's quarters, and his blue eyes flashed a deep fire, and his
nostrils expanded with the breath of a victory won. Mr. Bellingham, on
the other side of the table, sparkled with a wit and grace that were to
modern table-talk what a rare flagon of old madeira, crusted with years,
but brimming with the imperishable strength and perfume of eternal
youth, might be to a gaudily-ticketed bottle of California champagne,
effervescent, machine-made, cheap, and nasty. And his glance
comprehended the pair, and loved them. He thought they were like a
picture of the North and of the South; and the thought called up
memories in his brave old breast of a struggle that shook the earth to
her foundations, and made him think of problems yet unsolved. He sat in
his place silent for some minutes, and the broad brown hand stroked the
snowy beard in deep thought, so that the conversation flagged, and the
Duke began to talk about the voyage. But Mr. Bellingham took his
brimming glass, filled with the wine that ripened in the sun when he
himself was but a little boy, and he held it a moment to the light; the
juice was clearer now than it had been that day sixty years, and the
hand that held the goblet was as a hand of iron for strength and
steadiness, though the dark fingers might have plucked the grapes on the
day they were pressed. And with an old-time motion he carried it to his
lips, then paused one instant, then drank it slowly, slowly to the last
drop. It was a toast, but the speech was unspoken, and none knew to whom
or to what he drained the measure. In a little time he began to speak
again; the conversation turned upon mutual friends in England, and the
dinner was at an end.
But all through the evening Claudius never left Margaret's side. He
felt that he was bridging over the difference between life at sea and
life on land--that he was asserting his right to maintain in a
drawing-room the privileges he had gained on the deck of the _Streak_.
And Margaret, moreover, was especially friendly to-night, for she too
felt the difference, and recognised that, after all, life on shore is
the freer. There are certain conventionalities of a drawing-room that a
man is less likely to break through, more certain to remember, than the
unwritten rules of cruising etiquette. Most men who have led a free life
are a little less likely to make love under the restraint of a white tie
than they are when untrammelled by restraints of dress, which always
imply some restraint of freedom.
At least Margaret thought so. And Claudius felt it, even though he would
not acknowledge it. They talked about the voyage; about what they had
said and done, about the accident, and a hundred other things. There is
a moment in acquaintance, in friendship, and in love, when two people
become suddenly aware that they have a common past. Days, weeks, or
months have been spent in conversation, in reading, perhaps in toil and
danger, and they have not thought much about it. But one day they wake
up to the fact that these little or great things bind them, as forming
the portion of their lives that have touched; and as they talk over the
incidents they remember they feel unaccountably drawn to each other by
the past. Margaret and Claudius knew this on the first evening they
spent together on shore. The confusion of landing, the custom-house, the
strange quarters in the great hotel--all composed a drop-curtain
shutting off the ocean scene, and ending thus an episode of their
life-drama. A new act was beginning for them, and they both knew how
much might depend on the way in which it was begun, and neither dared
plan how it should end. At all events, they were not to be separated
yet, and neither anticipated such a thing.
Little by little their voices dropped as they talked, and they recked
little of the others, as the dark cheek of the woman flushed with
interest, and the blue light shone in the man's eyes. Their companions
on the voyage were well used to seeing them thus together, and hardly
noticed them, but Mr. Bellingham's bright eyes stole a glance from time
to time at the beautiful pair in their corner, and the stories of youth
and daring and love, that he seemed so full of this evening, flashed
with an unwonted brilliancy. He made up his mind that the two were
desperately, hopelessly, in love, and he had taken a fancy to Claudius
from the first. There was no reason why they should not be, and he loved
to build up romances, always ending happily, in his fertile imagination.
But at last it was "good-night." Mr. Bellingham was not the man to spend
the entire evening in one house, and he moved towards Margaret, hating
to disturb the couple, but yet determined to do it. He rose, therefore,
still talking, and, as the Duke rose also, cleverly led him round the
chairs until within speaking distance of Margaret, who was still
absorbed in her conversation. Then, having finished the one thread, he
turned round.
"By the by, Countess," he said, "I remember once--" and he told a
graceful anecdote of Margaret's grandmother, which delighted every one,
after which he bowed, like a young lover of twenty, to each of the three
ladies, and departed.
The party dispersed, the Duke and Claudius for half an hour's chat and
a cigar, and the ladies to their rooms. But Claudius and Margaret
lingered one moment in their corner, standing.
"Has it been a happy day for you?" he asked, as she gave her hand.
"Yes, it has been happy. May there be many like it!" she answered.
"There shall be," said Claudius; "good-night, Countess."
"Good-night--good-night, Claudius."
The Duke waited fully ten minutes for the Doctor. It was the second time
she had spoken his name without the formality of a prefix, and Claudius
stood where she left him, thinking. There was nothing so very
extraordinary in it, after all, he thought. Foreign women, especially
Russians, are accustomed to omit any title or prefix, and to call their
intimate friends by their simple names, and it means nothing. But her
voice was so wonderful. He never knew his name sounded so sweet
before--the consonants and vowels, like the swing and fall of a deep
silver bell in perfect cadence. "A little longer," thought Claudius,
"and it shall be hers as well as mine." He took a book from the table
absently, and had opened it when he suddenly recollected the Duke, put
it down and left the room.
Soon a noiseless individual in a white waistcoat and a dress-coat put
his head in at the door, advanced, straightened the chairs, closed the
book the Doctor had opened, put the gas out and went away, shutting the
door for the night, and leaving the room to its recollections. What
sleepless nights the chairs and heavy-gilt glasses and gorgeous carpets
of a hotel must pass, puzzling over the fragments of history that are
enacted in their presence!