CONTENTS
[ DAVENPORT DUNN, A MAN OF THE DAY ]
[ CHAPTER I. ] HYDROPATHIC ACQUAINTANCES
[ CHAPTER II. ] HOW TWO “FINE LADIES” PASS THE MORNING
[ CHAPTER III. ] A FATHER AND A DAUGHTER
[ CHAPTER IV. ] ONE WHO WOULD BE A “SHARP FELLOW.”
[ CHAPTER V. ] THE WORLD'S CHANGES
[ CHAPTER VI. ] SYBELLA KELLETT
[ CHAPTER VII. ] AN ARRIVAL AT MIDNIGHT
[ CHAPTER VIII. ] MR. DUNN
[ CHAPTER IX. ] A DAY ON THE LAKE OF COMO
[ CHAPTER X. ] A “SMALL DINNER”
[ CHAPTER XI. ] "A CONSULTATION.”
[ CHAPTER XII. ] ANNESLEY BEECHER'S “PAL”
[ CHAPTER XIII. ] A MESSAGE FROM JACK
[ CHAPTER XIV. ] A DINNER AT PAUL KELLETT'S
[ CHAPTER XV. ] A HOME SCENE
[ CHAPTER XVI. ] DAVIS VERSUS DUNN
[ CHAPTER XVII. ] THE “PENSIONNAT GODARDE.”
[ CHAPTER XVIII. ] SOME DOINGS OF MR. DRISCOLL
[ CHAPTER XIX. ] DRISCOLL IN CONFERENCE
[ CHAPTER XX. ] AN EVENING WITH GROG DAVIS
[ CHAPTER XXI. ] A DARK DAY
[ CHAPTER XXII. ] AFTER A DINNER-PARTY
[ CHAPTER XXIII. ] A BREAKFAST-TABLE
[ CHAPTER XXIV. ] THE COTTAGE
[ CHAPTER XXV. ] A CHURCHYARD
[ CHAPTER XXVI. ] THE OSTEND PACKET
[ CHAPTER XXVII. ] A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE
[ CHAPTER XXVIII. ] THE HERMITAGE AT GLENGARIFF
[ CHAPTER XXIX. ] A MORNING AT OSTEND
[ CHAPTER XXX. ] THE OPERA
[ CHAPTER XXXI. ] EXPLANATIONS
[ CHAPTER XXXII. ] THE COUPÉ ON THE RAIL
[ CHAPTER XXXIII. ] THE “FOUR NATIONS” AT AIX
[ CHAPTER XXXIV. ] AIX-LA-CHAPELLE
[ CHAPTER XXXV. ] A FOREIGN COUNT
[ CHAPTER XXXVI. ] A COUNTRY VISIT
[ CHAPTER XXXVII. ] "A MAN IN REQUEST”
[ CHAPTER XXXVIII. ] MR. DAVENPORT DUNN IN MORE MOODS THAN ONE
[ CHAPTER XXXIX. ] "A LETTER TO JACK”
[ CHAPTER XL. ] SCHEMES AND PROJECTS
[ CHAPTER XLI. ] "A COUNTRY WALK”
[ CHAPTER XLII. ] THE GERM OF A BOLD STROKE
[ CHAPTER XLIII. ] THE GARDEN
DAVENPORT DUNN, A MAN OF THE DAY.
CHAPTER I. HYDROPATHIC ACQUAINTANCES.
We are at Como, on the lake—that spot so beloved of opera dancers—the day-dream of prima donnas—the Elysium of retired barytones! And with what reason should this be the Paradise of all who have lived and sighed, and warbled and pirouetted, within the charmed circle of the footlights? The crystal waters mirroring every cliff and crag with intense distinctness; the vegetation variegated to the very verge of extravagance; orange-trees overloaded with fruit; arbutus only too much bespangled with red berries; villas, more coquettish than ever scene-painter conceived, with vistas of rooms within, all redolent of luxury; terraces, and statues, and vases, and fountains, and marble balconies, steeped in a thousand balmy odours, make up a picture which well may fascinate those whose ideal of beauty is formed of such gorgeous groupings. There is something of unreality in the brilliant colouring and variety of the scene suggesting the notion, that at any moment the tenor may emerge, velvet mantle and all, from the copse before you; or a prima donna, in all the dishevelment of her back hair, rush madly to your feet. There is not a portal from which an angry father may not issue; not a shady walk that might not be trod by an incensed basso!
The rustic bridges seem made for the tiny feet of short-petticoated damsels, daintily tripping, with white-napkin covered baskets, to soft music; and every bench appears but waiting for that wearied old peasant, in blue stockings, a staff, and a leather belt, that has vented his tiresomeness in the same spot for the last half century. Who wonders, if the distracted Princess of “the scene” should love a picture that recalls the most enthusiastic triumphs of her success? Why should not the retired “Feri” like to wander at will through a more enchanting garden than ever she pirouetted in?