BY
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1901
Copyright, 1901, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV
IT was an occasion, I felt—the prospect of a large party—to look outat the station for others, possible friends and even possible enemies,who might be going. Such premonitions, it was true, bred fears when theyfailed to breed hopes, though it was to be added that there weresometimes, in the case, rather happy ambiguities. One was glowered at,in the compartment, by people who on the morrow, after breakfast, wereto prove charming; one was spoken to first by people whose sociabilitywas subsequently to show as bleak; and one built with confidence onothers who were never to reappear at all—who were only going toBirmingham. As soon as I saw Gilbert Long, some way up the platform,however, I knew him as an element. It was not so much that the wish wasfather to the thought as that I remembered having already more than oncemet him at Newmarch. He was a friend of the house—he wouldn't be goingto Birmingham. I so little expected him, at the same time, to recogniseme that I stopped short of the carriage near which he stood—I lookedfor a seat that wouldn't make us neighbours.
I had met him at Newmarch only—a place of a charm so special as tocreate rather a bond among its guests; but he had always, in theinterval, so failed to know me that I could only hold him as stupidunless I held him as impertinent. He was stupid in fact, and in thatcharacter had no business at Newmarch; but he had also, no doubt, hissystem, which he applied without discernment. I wondered, while I saw mythings put into my corner, what Newmarch could see in him—for it alwayshad to see something before it made a sign. His good looks, which werestriking, perhaps paid his way—his six feet and more of stature, hislow-growing, tight-curling hair, his big, bare, blooming face. He was afine piece of human furniture—he made a small party seem more numerous.This, at least, was the impression of him that had revived before Istepped out again to the platform, and it armed me only at first withsurprise when I saw him come down to me as if for a greeting. If he haddecided at last to treat me as an acquaintance made, it was none theless a case for letting him come all the way. That, accordingly, waswhat he did, and with so clear a conscience, I hasten to add, that atthe end of a minute we were talking together quite as with the traditionof prompt intimacy. He was good-looking enough, I now again saw, but notsuch a model of it as I had seemed to remember; on the other hand hismanners had distinctly gained in ease. He referred to our previousencounters and common contacts—he was glad I was going; he peeped intomy compartment and thought