OBJECT, MATRIMONY
Winter fogs in New York are never quite so intolerable as their
counterparts in London; and while their frequency is a matter of
complaint, their duration is seldom of any length. So, by the morrow a
strong wind from the west had winnowed the skies and cleared the sun.
There was an exhilarating tingle of frost in the air and a visible rime
on the windows. Hillard, having breakfasted lightly, was standing with
his back to the grate in the cozy breakfast-room. He was in boots and
breeches and otherwise warmly clad, and freshly shaven. He rocked on his
heels and toes, and ran his palm over his blue-white chin in search of a
possible slip of the razor.
Giovanni came in to announce that he had telephoned, and that the
signore's brown mare would be at the park entrance precisely at
half-after eight. Giovanni still marveled over this wonderful voice
which came out of nowhere, but he was no longer afraid of it. The
curiosity which is innate and child-like in all Latins soon overcame his
dark superstitions. He was an ardent Catholic and believed that a few
miracles should be left in the hands of God. The telephone had now
become a kind of plaything, and Hillard often found him in front of it,
patiently waiting for the bell to ring.
The facility with which Giovanni had mastered English amazed his teacher
and master; but now he needed no more lessons, the two when alone
together spoke Giovanni's tongue: Hillard, because he loved it, and
Giovanni because the cook spoke it badly and the English butler not at
all.
"You have made up your mind to go, then, _amico_?" said Hillard.
"Yes, signore."
"Well, I shall miss you. To whom shall I talk the tongue I love so well,
when Giovanni is gone?" with a lightness which he did not feel. Hillard
had grown very fond of the old Roman in these seven years.
"Whenever the signore goes to Italia, he shall find me. It needs but a
word to bring me to him. The signore will pardon me, but he is
like--like a son."
"Thanks, Giovanni. By the way, did you hear a woman singing in the
street last night?"
"Yes. At first--" Giovanni hesitated.
"Ah, but that could not be, Giovanni; that could not be."
"No, it could not be. But she sang well!" the old servant ventured.
"So thought I. I even ran out into the street to find out who she was;
but she vanished like the lady in the conjurer's trick. But it seemed to
me that, while she sang in Italian, she herself was not wholly of that
race."
"_Buonissima!_" Giovanni struck a noiseless brava with his hands. "Have
I not always said that the signore's ears are as sharp as my own? No,
the voice was very beautiful, but it was not truly Roman. It was more
like they talk in Venice. And yet the sound of the voice decided me. The
hills have always been calling to me; and I must answer."
"And the unforgetting _carabinieri_?"
"Oh, I must take my chance," with the air of a fatalist.
"What shall you do?"
"I have my two hands, signore. Besides, the signore has said it; I am
rich." Giovanni permitted a smile to stir his thin lips. "Yes, I must go
back. Your people have been good to me and have legally made me one of
them, but my heart is never here. It is always so cold and every one
moves so quickly. You can not lie down in the sun. Your police, bah!
They beat you on the feet. You remember when I fell asleep on the steps
of the cathedral? They thought I was drunk, and would have arrested me!"
"Everybody must keep moving here; it is the penalty of being rich."
"And I am lonesome for my kind. I have nothing in common with these
herds of Sicilians and Neapolitans who pour into the streets from the
wharves." Giovanni spoke scornfully.
"Yet in war time the Neapolitans sheltered your pope."
"Vanity! They wished to make an impression on the rest of the world. It
is dull here, besides. There is no joy in the shops. I am lost in these
great palaces. The festa is lacking. Nobody bargains; nobody sees the
proprietor; you find your way to the streets alone. The butcher says
that his meat is so-and-so, and you pay; the grocer marks his tins
such-and-such, and you do not question; and the baker says that, and you
pay, pay, pay! What? I need a collar; it is _quindici_--fifteen you say!
I offer _quattordici_. I would give interest to the sale. But no! The
collar goes back into the box. I pay _quindici_, or I go without. It is
the same everywhere; very dull, dead, lifeless."
Hillard was moved to laughter. He very well understood the old man's
lament. In Italy, if there is one thing more than another that pleases
the native it is to make believe to himself that he has got the better
of a bargain. A shrewd purchase enlivens the whole day; it is talked
about, laughed over, and becomes the history of the day that Tomass', or
Pietro, or Paoli, or whatever his name may be, has bested the merchant
out of some twenty centesimi.
"And the cook and the butler," concluded Giovanna; "we do not get on
well."
"It is because they are in mortal fear of you, you brigand! Well, my
coat and cap."
Hillard presently left the house and hailed a Fifth Avenue omnibus. He
looked with negative interest at the advertisements, at the people in
the streets, at his fellow-travelers. One of these was hidden behind his
morning paper. _Personals._ Hillard squirmed a little. The world never
holds very much romance in the sober morning. What a stupid piece of
folly! The idea of his sending that personal inquiry to the paper!
To-morrow he would see it sandwiched in between samples of shop-girl
romance, questionable intrigues, and divers search-warrants. Ye gods!
"Will the blonde who smiled at gentleman in blue serge, elevated train,
Tuesday, meet same in park? Object, matrimony." Hillard fidgeted. "Young
man known as Adonis would adore stout elderly lady, independently
situated. Object, matrimony." Pish! "Girlie. Can't keep appointment
to-night. Willie." Tush! "A French Widow of eighteen, unencumbered," and
so forth and so on. Rot, bally rot; and here he was on the way to join
them! "Will the lady who sang from _Madame Angot_ communicate with
gentleman who leaned out of the window? J.H. Burgomaster Club."
Positively asinine! The man opposite folded the paper and stuffed it
into his pocket, and its disappearance relieved Hillard somewhat.
There was scarce one chance in a thousand of the mysterious singer's
seeing the inquiry, not one in ten thousand of her answering it. And the
folly of giving his club address! That would look very dignified in
yonder agony column! And then he brightened. He could withdraw it; and
he would do so the very first thing when he went down-town to the
office. "Object, matrimony!" If the woman saw it she would only laugh.
It was all a decent woman could do. And certainly the woman of the past
night's adventure was of high degree, educated; and doubtless the spirit
which had prompted the song was as inexplicable to her this morning as
it had been to him last night. He had lost none of the desire to meet
her, but reason made it plain to him that a meeting could not possibly
be arranged through any personal column in the newspaper. He would
cancel the thing.
He dropped from the omnibus at the park entrance, where he found his
restive mare. He gave her a lump of sugar and climbed into the saddle.
He directed the groom to return for the horse at ten o'clock, then
headed for the bridle-path. It was heavy, but the air was so keen and
bracing that neither the man nor the horse worried about the going.
There were a dozen or so early riders besides himself, and in and out
the winding path they passed and repassed, walking, trotting, cantering.
Only one party attracted him: a riding master and a trio of brokers who
were verging on embonpoint, and were desperate and looked it. They stood
in a fair way of losing several pounds that morning. A good rider always
smiles at the sight of a poor one, when a little retrospection should
make him rather pitying. Hillard went on. The park was not lovely; the
trees were barren, the grass yellow and sodden, and here and there were
grimy cakes of unmelted snow.
"She is so innocent, so youthful!"
He found himself humming the refrain over and over. She had sung it with
abandon, tenderness, lightness. For one glimpse of her face! He took the
rise and dip which followed. Perhaps a hundred yards ahead a solitary
woman cantered easily along. Hillard had not seen her before. He spurred
forward, only faintly curious. She proved to be a total stranger. There
was nothing familiar to his eye in her figure, which was charming. She
rode well. As he drew nearer he saw that she wore a heavy grey veil. And
this veil hid everything but the single flash of a pair of eyes the
color of which defied him. Then he looked at her mount. Ha! there was
only one rangy black with a white throat; from the Sandford stables, he
was positive. But the Sandfords were at this moment in Cairo, so it
signified nothing. There is always some one ready to exercise your
horses, if they happen to be showy ones. He looked again at the rider;
the flash of the eyes was not repeated; so his interest vanished, and he
urged the mare into a sharp run. Twice in the course of the ride he
passed her, but her head never turned. He knew it did not because he
turned to see.
So he went back to his tentative romance. She had passed his window and
disappeared into the fog, and there was a reasonable doubt of her ever
returning from it. The Singer in the Fog; thus he would write it down in
his book of memories and sensibly turn the page. Once down-town he would
countermand his order, and that would be the end of it. At length he
came back to the entrance and surrendered the mare. He was about to
cross the square, when he was hailed.
"Hello, Jack! I say, Hillard!"
Hillard wheeled and saw Merrihew. He, too, was in riding-breeches.
"Why, Dan, glad to see you. Were you in the park?"
"Riverside. Beastly cold, too. Come into the Plaza and join me in a cup
of good coffee."
"Had breakfast long ago, boy."
"Oh, just one cup! I'm lonesome."
"That's no inducement; but I'll join you," replied Hillard cheerfully.
The two entered the cafe, sat down, and Merrihew ordered Mocha.
"How are you behaving yourself these days?" asked Merrihew. He drank
more coffee and smoked more cigars than were good for him. He was always
going to start in next week to reduce the quantity.
"My habits are always exemplary," answered Hillard. "But yours?"
Merrihew's face lengthened. He pulled the yellow hair out of his eyes
and gulped his coffee.
"Kitty Killigrew leaves in two weeks for Europe."
"And who the deuce is Kitty Killigrew?" demanded Hillard.
"What?" reproachfully. "You haven't heard of Kitty Killigrew in _The
Modern Maid_? Where've you been? Pippin! Prettiest soubrette that's hit
the town in a dog's age."
"I say, Dan, don't you ever tire of that sort? I can't recall when there
wasn't a Kitty Killigrew. What's the attraction?" Hillard waved aside
the big black cigar. "No heavy tobacco for me in the morning. What's the
attraction?"
Merrihew touched off a match, applied it to the black cigar, took the
cigar from his teeth and inspected the glowing end critically. He never
failed to go through this absurd pantomime; he would miss a train rather
than omit it.
"The truth is, Jack, I'm a jackass half the time. I can't get away from
the glamour of the footlights. I'm no Johnny; you know that. No hanging
round stage-entrances and buying wine and diamonds. I might be reckless
enough to buy a bunch of roses, when I'm not broke. But I like 'em, the
bright ones. They keep a fellow amused. Most of 'em speak good English
and come from better families than you would suppose. Just good
fellowship, you know; maybe a rabbit and a bottle of beer after the
performance, or a little quarter limit at the apartment, singing and
good stories. What you've in mind is the chorus-lady. Not for mine!"
Hillard laughed, recalling his conversation with the policeman.
"Go on," he said; "get it all out of your system, now that you're
started."
"And then it tickles a fellow's vanity to be seen with them at the
restaurants. That's the way it begins, you know. I'll be perfectly frank
with you. If it wasn't for what the other fellows say, most of the
chorus-ladies would go hungry. And the girls that you and I know think
I'm a devil of a fellow, wicked but interesting, and all that."
Hillard's laughter broke forth again, and he leaned back. Merrihew would
always be twenty-six, he would always be youthful.
"And this Kitty Killigrew? I believe I've seen posters of her in the
windows, now that you speak of it."
"Well, Jack, I've got it bad this trip. I offered to marry her last
night."
"What!"
"Truth. And what do you think? Dropped me very neatly two thousand feet,
but softly. And I was serious, too."
"It seems to me that your Kitty is not half bad. What would you have
done had she accepted you?"
"Married her within twenty-four hours!"
"Come, Dan, be sensible. You are not such an ass as all that."
"Yes, I am," moodily. "I told you that I was a jackass half the time;
this is the half."
"But she won't have you?"
"Not for love or money."
"Are you sure about the money?" asked Hillard shrewdly.
"Seven hundred or seven thousand, it wouldn't matter to Kitty if she
made up her mind to marry a fellow. What's the matter with me, anyhow?
I'm not so badly set-up; I can whip any man in the club at my weight; I
can tell a story well; and I'm not afraid of anything."
"Not even of the future!" added Hillard.
"Do you really think it's my money?" pathetically.
"Well, seven thousand doesn't go far, and that's all you have. If it
were seventy, now, I'm not sure Kitty wouldn't reconsider."
Merrihew ran his tongue along the cigar wrapper which had loosened. He
had seven thousand a year, and every January first saw him shouldering a
thousand odd dollars' worth of last year's debts. Somehow, no matter how
he retrenched, he never could catch up. It's hard to pay for a horse
after one has ridden it to death, and Merrihew was always paying for
dead horses. He sighed.
"What's she like?" asked Hillard, with more sympathy than curiosity.
Merrihew drew out his watch and opened the case. It was a pretty face;
more than that, it was a refined prettiness. The eyes were merry, the
brow was intelligent, the nose and chin were good. Altogether, it was
the face of a merry, kindly little soul, one such as would be most
likely to trap the wandering fancy of a young man like Merrihew.
"And she won't have you," Hillard repeated, this time with more
curiosity than sympathy.
"Oh, she's no fool, I suppose. Honest Injun, Jack, it's so bad that I
find myself writing poetry on the backs of envelopes. And now she's
going to Europe!"
"London?"
"No. Some manager has the idea in his head that there is money to be
made in Italy and Germany during the spring and summer. American
comic-opera in those countries; can you imagine it? He has an angel, and
I suppose money is no object."
"This angel, then, has cut out a fine time for his bank account, and
he'll never get back to heaven, once he gets tangled up in foreign
red-tape. Every large city in Italy and Germany has practically its own
opera troupe. In full season it is grand opera, out of season it is
comic-opera, not the American kind; _Martha_, _The Bohemian Girl_, _The
Mascotte_, _The Grand Duchess_, and the like. And oh! my boy, the
homeliest chorus you ever dreamed of seeing; but they can sing. It's
only the ballerina who must have looks and figure. Poor angel! Tell your
Kitty to strike for a return ticket to America before she leaves."
"You think it's as bad as that?"
"Look on me as a prophet of evil, if you like, but truthful."
"I'll see that Kitty gets her ticket." Merrihew snapped the case of his
watch and drew his legs from under the table. "I lost a hundred last
night, too."
"After that I suppose nothing worse can happen," said Hillard cheerily.
"You will play, for all my advice."
"It's better to give than receive ... that," replied Merrihew
philosophically. "I've a good mind to follow the company. I've always
had a hankering to beat it up at Monte Carlo. A last throw, eh? Win or
lose, and quit. I might."
"And then again you mightn't. But the next time I go to Italy, I want
you to go with me. You're good company, and for the pleasure of
listening to your jokes I'll gladly foot the bills, and you may gamble
your letter of credit to your heart's content. I must be off. Who is
riding the Sandfords' black?"
"Haven't noticed. What do you think of Kitty?"
"Charming."
"And the photo isn't a marker."
"Possibly not."
"Lord, if I could only hibernate for three months, like a bear! My
capital might then readjust itself, if left alone that length of time.
Jack, why the deuce haven't I a relation I never heard of, who would
politely die to-morrow and leave me that beggarly thousand? I'm not
asking for much. The harder I chase it, the faster it runs ahead."
Merrihew thwacked his boots soundly with his crop.
"Some day I'm going to enter that thousand in the Suburban handicap. And
won't there be a killing!"
"It wouldn't do you any good to borrow it?"
"In that case I should owe two thousand instead of one. No, thank you.
Shall I see you at the club to-night?"
"Perhaps. Good-by."
They nodded pleasantly and took their separate ways. Merrihew stood very
high in Hillard's regard. He was a lovable fellow, and there was
something kindred in his soul and Hillard's, possibly the spirit of
romance. They had met years before, at a commencement, Merrihew in his
mortar-board and gown and Hillard as an old graduate, renewing his youth
at the fountains. What drew them together, perhaps more than anything
else, was their mutual love of out-door pleasures. Their first meeting
was followed by many hunting and fishing expeditions, and many long
rides on horseback. Take two men and put them on good horses, send them
forth into the wilds to face all conditions of weather and
inconveniences, and if they are not fast friends at the end of the
journey, rest assured that they never will be.
For all his aversion to cards, there was a bit of the gamester in
Hillard; as, once in his office, he decided on the fall of a coin not to
withdraw his personal from the paper. He was quite positive that he
would never hear that Voice again, but having thrown his dice he would
let them lie.
Now, at eleven o'clock that same morning two distinguished Italians sat
down to breakfast in one of the fashionable hotels. The one nor the
other had ever heard of Hillard, they did not even know that such a
person existed; and yet, serenely unconscious, one was casting his
life-line, as the palmist would say, across Hillard's. The knots and
tangles were to come later.
"The coffee in this country is abominable!" growled one.
"Insufferable!" assented his companion.
The waiter smiled covertly behind his hand. He had a smattering of all
tongues, being foreign born. These Italians and these Germans! Why,
there is only one place in the world where both the aroma and the flavor
of coffee are preserved; and it is not, decidedly not, in Italy or
Germany. And if his tip exceeded ten cents, he would be vastly
surprised. The Italian is always the same, prince or peasant. He never
wastes on necessities a penny which can be applied to the gaming-tables.
And these two were talking about Monte Carlo and Ostend and the German
_Kursaalen_.
The younger of the two was a very handsome man, tall, slender and
nervous, the Venetian type. His black eyes were keen and energetic and
roving, suggesting a temper less calculating than hasty. The mouth,
partly hidden under a graceful military mustache, was thin-lipped, the
mouth of a man who, however great his vices, was always master of them.
From his right cheek-bone to the corner of his mouth ran a scar, very
well healed. Instead of detracting from the beauty of his face it added
a peculiar fascination. And the American imagination, always receptive
of the romantic, might readily and forgivably have pictured villas,
maids in durance vile, and sword-thrusts under the moonlight. But the
waiter, who had served his time in one or another of the foreign armies,
knew that no foil or rapier could have made such a scar; more probably
the saber. For the Italian officer on horseback is the maddest of all
men, and in the spirit of play courts hazards that another man might
sensibly avoid in actual warfare.
His companion was less handsome but equally picturesque. His white head
and iron-grey beard placed him outside the active army. He wore in his
buttonhole a tiny bow of ribbon, the usual badge of the foreign service.
"I'm afraid, Enrico, that you have brought me to America on a useless
adventure," said the diplomat, lighting a thin, strong cigarette.
"She is here in New York, and I shall find her. I must have money, must!
I owe you the incredible amount of one hundred thousand lire. There are
millions under my hand, and I can not touch a penny."
"Do not let your debt to me worry you."
"You are so very good, Giuseppe!"
"Have we not grown up together? Sometimes I think I am partly to blame
for your extravagance. But a friend is a friend, or he is not."
"But he who borrows from his friend, loses him. Observe how I am placed!
It is maddening. I have had a dozen opportunities to marry riches. This
millstone is eternally round my neck. I have gone through my part of the
fortune which was left us independently. She has all of hers, and that
is why she is so strong. I am absolutely helpless."
"Poor friend! These American women! They all believe that a man must
have no peccadillos, once he has signed the marriage contract. Body of
Bacchus! the sacrament does not make a man less human than he was
before. But this one is clever. She might be Italian born."
"Her mother was Italian. It is the schooling in this country that has
made her so clever. The only thing Italian about her is her hatred. She
is my countrywoman there. Without her consent I can touch nothing; and
if I divorce her, pouff! all goes to the State. Sometimes I long to get
my two hands round her white throat. One mistake, one little mistake! I
am willing to swear that she loved me in the beginning. And I was a fool
not to profit by this sentiment. Give me patience, patience. If I say to
her, so much and you may have your freedom, there is always that cursed
will. The crown of Italy will never withdraw its hand; no. With his
wife's family on his hands, especially her brother, the king will never
waive his rights."
"Zut! softly, softly!"
"Oh, I speak with no disrespect. But let me find her."
"I doubt it. And remember, we have but ten days."
"We shall not find time heavy. I know a few rich butchers and grocers
who call themselves the aristocracy."
They laughed.
"And some of them play bridge and ecarte."
The diplomat jingled his keys. He was not averse to adding a few gold
pieces to his purse.
"I have followed her step by step to the boat at Naples. She is here.
She is not so inconspicuous that she will be hard to find. She has
wealthy friends, and from these I shall learn her whereabouts."
"You say she is beautiful; I would that I had seen her."
"Yes, she is beautiful; and a beautiful woman can not hide, even in a
city so big and noisy as this. Think of it! Chateaux and villas and
splendid rents, all waiting to be gormandized by the State! I have lied
to her, I have humiliated myself, I have offered all the reparation a
gentleman possibly could. Nothing, nothing! She knows; it is money, and
she knows it is money. The American native shrewdness! My father was a
fool and so was hers. And on July first comes the end! Let us get out
into the air before I become excited and forget where I am."
"As you wish, _amico_." The diplomat beckoned to the waiter.
The waiter stepped forward with the coats and hats. His tip was exactly
ten cents, and out of this the head waiter must have his percentage.
Three nights later, as Hillard and Merrihew were dining together at the
club, the steward came into the grill-room and swept his placid eye over
the groups of diners. Singling out Hillard, he came solemnly down to the
corner table and laid a blue letter at the side of Hillard's plate.
"I did not see you when you came in, sir," said the steward, his voice
as solemn as his step. "The letter arrived yesterday."
"Thank you, Thomas." With no small difficulty Hillard composed his face
and repressed the eagerness in his eyes. She had seen, she had written,
the letter lay under his hand! Who said that romance had taken flight?
True, the reading of the letter might disillusion him; but always would
there be that vision and the voice coming out of the fog. Nonchalantly
he turned the letter face downward and went on with the meal.
"I did not know that your mail came to the club," said Merrihew.
"It doesn't. Only rarely a letter drifts this way."
"Well, go on and read it; don't let me keep you from it. Some charmer,
I'll wager. Here I pour all my adventures into your ear, and I on my
side never so much as get a hint of yours. Go on, read it."
"Adventures, fiddlesticks! The letter can wait. It is probably a bill."
"A bill in a fashionable envelope like that?"
Hillard only smiled, tipped the cradle and refilled Merrihew's glass
with some excellent Romanee Conti. "When does Kitty sail?" he asked,
after a while of silence.
"A week from this Saturday, February second. What the deuce did you
bring up that for? I've been trying to forget it."
"Where do they land?"
"Naples. They open in Rome the first week in March. All the arrangements
and bookings seem to be complete. This is mighty good Burgundy, Jack. I
don't see where you pick it up." After coffee Merrihew pushed back his
chair. "I'll reserve a table in the billiard-room while you read your
letter."
"I'll be with you shortly," gratefully.
So, with the inevitable black cigar between his teeth, Merrihew
sauntered off toward the billiard-room, while Hillard picked up his
letter and studied it. His fingers trembled slightly as he tore open the
envelope. The handwriting, the paper, the modest size, all these pointed
to a woman of culture and refinement. But a subtle spirit of irony
pervaded it all. She would never have answered his printed inquiry had
she not laughed over it. For, pinned to the top of the letter was the
clipping, the stupid, banal clipping--"Will the lady who sang from
_Madame Angot_ communicate with gentleman who leaned out of the window?
J.H. Burgomaster Club." There was neither a formal beginning nor a
formal ending; only four crisp lines. But these implied one thing, and
distinctly: the writer had no desire for further communication "with
gentleman who leaned out of the window." He read and re-read slowly.
I am sorry to learn that my
singing disturbed you. There
was a reason. At that partic-
ular moment I was happy.
That was all. It was enough. She had laughed; she was a lady humorously
inclined, not to say mischievous. A comic-opera star would have sent her
press agent round to see what advertising could be got out of the
incident; a prima donna would have appealed to her primo tenore, for the
same purpose. A gentlewoman, surely; moreover, she lived within the
radius, the official radius of the Madison Square branch of the
post-office, for such was the postmark. Common sense urged him to
dismiss the whole affair and laugh over it as the Lady in the Fog had
done. But common sense often goes about with a pedant's strut, and is
something to avoid on occasions. Here was a harmless pastime to pursue,
common sense notwithstanding. The vein of romance in him was strong, and
all the commercial blood of his father could not subjugate it. To find
out who she was, to meet her, to know her, if possible, this was his
final determination. He rang for paper and a messenger, and wrote:
"Madame Angot. There is a letter for you in the mail-department of this
office." This time his initials were not necessary. Once the message was
on its way, he sought Merrihew, whom he found knocking the balls about
in a spiritless manner.
"A hundred to seventy-five, Dan."
"For what?"
"For the mere fun of the game, of course."
"Make it cigars, just to add interest."
"Cigars, then."
But they both played a very indifferent game. At ten-thirty Merrihew's
eyes began to haunt the clock, and Hillard grew merciful for various
reasons.
"What time does the performance end?" he asked.
"At ten-fifty, but it takes about twenty minutes to scrape off the
make-up."
"Run along, then, my son; I can spare you. And you've a cigar coming."
Merrihew agreeably put his cue in the rack.
"Much obliged for the dinner, Jack. I'll return the favor any night you
say." He made off for the coat-room.
Hillard laughed, and went up to the writing-room to fulfil a part of his
destiny. He took the letter out and read it again. A woman of wit and
presence; a mighty good dinner companion, or he was no judge of women.
He replaced the letter in its blue covering, and then for the first time
his eye met the superscription. Like a man entranced he sat there
staring. The steward had brought the letter to him, and in his first
excitement this had made no impression upon his mind; he had seen
nothing peculiar nor strange. And here it was, not his initials, but his
name in full.
She knew who he was!