“Is there anything of antiquity about the house?” I inquired, turning to the waiter.
“Not that I know of,” was the reply; “but it is a very ancient establishment. There is a fresco two hundred years old in one of the rooms,” he added, with a little pride.
I took out my notebook and pencil, and was shown into a ground-floor room in the western and earlier part of the hotel to see this curiosity. Alas! it proved to be nothing but an old paperhanging.
“Not very remarkable,” I said, carelessly.
“Indeed, sir!”
“I am expecting some friends by the next train,” I continued. “We shall require dinner for three. What can we have?”
The waiter was pretty well acquainted with the productions of the culinary department, which had not much charm of novelty, and after settling that important business, I sallied forth to purchase a guide-book. This was not the first time I had been at Winchester, and much of the information it contained was not new to me; but I wished to refresh my memory on some points, as the friends I was expecting looked to me to be their cicerone during the few days we were to spend here together.
Reading some and skipping more, and glancing at the well-known illustrations, I thought myself fairly acquainted with the subject, especially as I had rummaged up something from old books and manuscripts in London. I wished to stand well with the old gentleman and his daughter for certain reasons which I shall not mention—because I may be unsuccessful. Well—we shall see.
Arrival.
Here they are!—warm greetings—the luggage is lifted down, and by degrees the small articles which accompany a lady’s travels were brought in, counted, and arranged. Do the number and variety of them cause me to hesitate or to reflect that in single blessedness—