author - "Louis Joseph Vance"
such Romance, thrice refined of dross, as only he knows whohas wooed his Art with passion passing the love of woman.
Far away, above the acres of huddled roofs and chimney-pots, thestorm-mists thinned, lifting transiently; through them, gray, fairy-like,the towers of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament bulked monstrousand unreal, fading when again the fugitive dun vapors closed down upon thecity.
Nearer at hand the Shade of Care nudged Kirkwood's elbow, whisperingsubtly. Romance was indeed dead; the world was cold and cruel.
The gloom deepened.
In the cant of modern metaphysics, the moment was psychological.
There came a rapping at the door.
Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say "Comein!" pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, turning on one heel, beheldhesitant upon the threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of the Plesspages.
"Mr. Kirkwood?"
Kirkwood nodded.
"Gentleman to see you, sir."
Kirkwood nodded ag
crop upagain wherever the hair grew thin, lending him the appearance of abadly-singed pup.
His pet superstition was that, as long as he refrained from practisinghis profession in Paris, Paris would remain his impregnable Tower ofRefuge. The world owed Bourke a living, or he so considered; and it mustbe allowed that he made collections on account with tolerable regularityand success; but Paris was tax-exempt as long as Paris offered himimmunity from molestation.
Not only did Paris suit his tastes excellently, but there was no place,in Bourke's esteem, comparable with Troyon's for peace and quiet.Hence, the continuity of his patronage was never broken by trials ofrival hostelries; and Troyon's was always expecting Bourke for thesimple reason that he invariably arrived unexpectedly, with neitherwarning nor ostentation, to stop as long as he liked, whether a day ora week or a month, and depart in the same manner.
His daily routine, as Troyon's came to know it, varied but slightly: hebreakf
dmirably patient person. Fully fifteen minutes elapsed before the return of the motor-cab was signalled unmistakably by the blatant bandbox bobbing back high above the press of traffic. And when this happened, Mr. Iff found some further business with the steamship company, and quietly and unobtrusively slipped back into the booking-office.
As he did so the cab stopped at the curb and the pretty young woman jumped out and followed Mr. Iff across the threshold--noticing him no more than had Mr. Staff, to begin with.
II
THE BANDBOX
In the playhouses of France, a hammering on the stage alone heralds the rising of the curtain to disclose illusory realms of romance. Precisely so with Mr. Staff, upon the door of whose lodging, at nine o'clock the next morning, a knocking announced the first overt move against his peace of mind.
At that time, Staff, all unconscious of his honourable peril, was standing in the middle of the floor of the inner room (his lodgings comprised two) an
such Romance, thrice refined of dross, as only he knows whohas wooed his Art with passion passing the love of woman.
Far away, above the acres of huddled roofs and chimney-pots, thestorm-mists thinned, lifting transiently; through them, gray, fairy-like,the towers of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament bulked monstrousand unreal, fading when again the fugitive dun vapors closed down upon thecity.
Nearer at hand the Shade of Care nudged Kirkwood's elbow, whisperingsubtly. Romance was indeed dead; the world was cold and cruel.
The gloom deepened.
In the cant of modern metaphysics, the moment was psychological.
There came a rapping at the door.
Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say "Comein!" pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, turning on one heel, beheldhesitant upon the threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of the Plesspages.
"Mr. Kirkwood?"
Kirkwood nodded.
"Gentleman to see you, sir."
Kirkwood nodded ag
crop upagain wherever the hair grew thin, lending him the appearance of abadly-singed pup.
His pet superstition was that, as long as he refrained from practisinghis profession in Paris, Paris would remain his impregnable Tower ofRefuge. The world owed Bourke a living, or he so considered; and it mustbe allowed that he made collections on account with tolerable regularityand success; but Paris was tax-exempt as long as Paris offered himimmunity from molestation.
Not only did Paris suit his tastes excellently, but there was no place,in Bourke's esteem, comparable with Troyon's for peace and quiet.Hence, the continuity of his patronage was never broken by trials ofrival hostelries; and Troyon's was always expecting Bourke for thesimple reason that he invariably arrived unexpectedly, with neitherwarning nor ostentation, to stop as long as he liked, whether a day ora week or a month, and depart in the same manner.
His daily routine, as Troyon's came to know it, varied but slightly: hebreakf
dmirably patient person. Fully fifteen minutes elapsed before the return of the motor-cab was signalled unmistakably by the blatant bandbox bobbing back high above the press of traffic. And when this happened, Mr. Iff found some further business with the steamship company, and quietly and unobtrusively slipped back into the booking-office.
As he did so the cab stopped at the curb and the pretty young woman jumped out and followed Mr. Iff across the threshold--noticing him no more than had Mr. Staff, to begin with.
II
THE BANDBOX
In the playhouses of France, a hammering on the stage alone heralds the rising of the curtain to disclose illusory realms of romance. Precisely so with Mr. Staff, upon the door of whose lodging, at nine o'clock the next morning, a knocking announced the first overt move against his peace of mind.
At that time, Staff, all unconscious of his honourable peril, was standing in the middle of the floor of the inner room (his lodgings comprised two) an