THE Butternut Grand Hotel was large and white; with a hundred windows,
all of the same size, equidistant, and in four parallel rows. Had any
one of them been unfinished, like the window in Aladdin's tower, it
need not have so remained; with a few hours' work any joiner could have
evened it up with the rest. A huge verandah surrounded the structure,
roofed above the second story; and up and down the painted floor of
this verandah a score of pairs of young ladies promenaded. Young ladies
they were called in the society columns of the summer Sunday papers;
speaking colloquially, one might have called them girls. Vane's black
suit was dusty, and in his travel-stained condition it was embarrassing
to be the object of young feminine eyes; but as most of them stopped
their walk to observe his entrance, there was nothing for it but to
cast his own eyes down, and walk modestly through the line. It was a
worse gantlet than the Calais pier. Vane went to the office to ask for
his room; but it was some minutes before the clerk, who was talking
with another gentleman, could give him his attention. When he did so he
scanned Vane rudely before replying, and at last, as he opened his lips
to answer, two of the young ladies from the piazza rushed in to ask
for their mail, and, pushing Vane slightly aside, engaged the clerk's
attention. "Now, Mr. Hitchcock, you don't mean to tell me you have no
letters for _me_?" said one. The other looked at Vane while she spoke,
as, indeed, did the speaker.
When the clerk began sorting the heap of letters which had just come in
the coach, Vane acquired the flattering conviction that the mail was
but a pretext, and himself the cause.
"There are none, indeed, Miss Morse," said the clerk; and the girls
fluttered gaily out. "I'll write you one myself, if you'll wait," added
the clerk jocosely. But the only reply to this was a Parthian glance
from Miss Morse, which embraced Vane in its orbit. The clerk looked
after them with a smile, and then, after meditating a moment, turned to
Vane.
"Now, what can I do for you, sir?"
"I believe I engaged a room."
"What name?"
"Vane."
"Three twelve," said the clerk, and turned back to his first
interlocutor, who had been standing silent in the meantime, chewing a
toothpick and regarding the opposite wall.
Vane's chamber was a long and narrow room shaped like a pigeon-hole in
a desk. A ventilating window was above the door, and a single window
opposite, uncurtained, looking out upon a long, monotonous slope of
mountain, which was clothed shabbily in a wood of short firs. The sides
and roof of the room were of coarse plaster; a red carpet was upon the
floor. Some delay was caused by Vane's ringing for a bath, and still
further delay by the waitress in obtaining the information that he
could not have one unless he gave notice the day before. While Vane
was waiting for all this he heard the door of the next room open, and
the distinctness of the feminine voices bore testimony to the thinness
of the walls. There were seemingly two young ladies there, but their
conversation was interrupted by a gong, which, as one of the voices
informed him, was the gong for supper. A consequent scuffle took place,
and this was only ended by the final bang of the door that announced
the departure of his neighbors.
Vane followed their example, and entered a long dining-hall in which
two rows of tables, eighteen in each row, were disposed transversely;
there were eighteen seats at every table, many of which were already
occupied. After waiting a minute at the door he was shown to a seat
next a Jewish family and several young men--evidently a sort of omnibus
table, to which the negro waiters, with a nice social discrimination,
ushered solitary males. Possibly for this reason, they were not well
served. The table was covered with little oval dishes of coarse
stoneware containing dip-toast, fried potatoes, and slices of cold
meat. Steaks and omelets were announced in a printed bill of fare, and
tea and coffee. Vane was unable to interest himself in his companions,
and watched the people coming in. Most of the elderly ladies and some
of the young girls wore large solitaire diamonds, and bore down, as if
under full sail, through the broad aisle, with elaborate assumption of
indifference and social dignity. It was evident that, to many of them,
the people who were seated at these tables represented the World. The
men looked more respectable, but even more out of place; and the girls,
of whom many were pretty, came tripping in by twos, with infinite
variety of gait and action. Vane noticed that Miss Morse and her friend
had changed their dresses. They did not look at him. Miss Morse's
friend had a novel in her hand which she read during the meal.
After supper Vane walked up and down the verandah. Most of the girls
did the same, still in couples. Despite the cool mountain air, many
of them wore low-throated muslin dresses. Vane's quasi-acquaintance,
Miss Morse, was not among them; but about nine in the evening a figure
came out of a side-door in front of him, in a sort of summer evening
ball dress, and stood a moment by the piazza railing, pensively looking
at the stars. As Vane passed by he saw that it was Miss Morse, and he
could not help wondering whether she expected him to speak to her. As
he passed the windows of the large dining-hall brilliantly lighted with
gas, he saw that they were dancing inside. A few instruments were in
one corner, and perhaps half a dozen couples waltzing on the floor.
Some young men were there in evening dress, but not enough to go round,
and many of the girls were dancing with each other. Vane had to admit
that most of them danced very gracefully and well. After a moment, Miss
Morse came in. She had apparently some pretensions, for she sank into
an arm-chair in one corner of the room, and refused to dance. There was
a sort of master of ceremonies in the person of a sallow and thin but
dapper young gentleman who had all the affable address of a popular
lady's salesman, and Vane saw him present several young men to Miss
Morse. All this became at last somewhat tiresome, and, feeling lonely,
Vane went to bed.
He had almost got to sleep when he was aroused by the voices of his
feminine neighbors. "Well, I think he's perfectly horrid," said one.
"No," said another, "he ain't much of an addition. I told father I must
have two new ball dresses, because I was coming here for the society. I
had to tease him for them for a month, and now, I declare, I might just
as well have stayed in the city all summer. Come and undo this, will
you, please?"
"Sh!" said the other voice, "how do you know there isn't some one next
door?" A silence followed, interrupted by bursts of stifled laughter.
"Well, I don't care," said the first voice. "There wasn't any one
there yesterday, anyhow. Did you see how he was dressed? Nothing but a
common, rough suit."
"Oh, don't you like that? Why, I call that real distinguished."
"Well, anyhow, I don't see why he couldn't get introduced. I call
it simply rude, Englishman or no Englishman." At this point the
unfortunate stranger seemed finally disposed of, and Vane went to sleep.