“I'll stand to what I've said,” said Davis. “Now, remember, the Hotel Tirlemont; and so, good-bye, for I must pack up.”
When the door closed after him, Annesley Beecher walked the room, discussing with himself the meaning of Davis's late words. Well did he know that to restore himself to rank and credit and fair fame was a labor of no common difficulty. How was he ever to get back to that station, forfeited by so many derelictions! Davis might, it is true, get his bills discounted,—might hit upon fifty clever expedients for raising the wind,—might satisfy this one, compromise with that; he might even manage so cleverly that racecourses and betting-rooms would be once more open to him. But what did—what could Grog know of that higher world where once he had moved, and to which, by his misdeeds, he had forfeited all claim to return? Why, Davis did n't even know the names of those men whose slightest words are verdicts upon character. All England was not Ascot, and Grog only recognized a world peopled with gentlemen riders and jocks, and a landscape dotted with flagstaffs, and closed in with a stand-house.
“No, no,” said he to himself; “that's a flight above you, Master Davis. It 's not to be thought of.”
CHAPTER XXX. THE OPERA.
A dingy old den enough is the Hôtel Tirlemont, with its low-arched porte-cochere, and its narrow windows, small-paned and iron-barred. It rather resembles one of those antiquated hostels you see in the background of an Ostade or a Teniers than the smart edifice which we nowadays look for in an hotel. Such was certainly the opinion of Annesley Beecher as he arrived there on the evening after that parting with Davis we have just spoken of. Twice did he ask the guide who accompanied him if this was really the Tirlemont, and if there were not some other hotel of the same name; and while he half hesitated whether he should enter, a waiter respectfully stepped forward to ask if he were the gentleman whose apartment had been ordered by Captain Davis,—a demand to which, with a sullen assent, he yielded, and slowly mounted the stairs.
“Is the Captain at home?” asked he.
“No, sir; he went off to the railway station to meet you. Mademoiselle, however, is upstairs.”
“Mademoiselle!” cried Beecher, stopping, and opening wide his eyes in astonishment. “This is something new,” muttered he. “When did she come?”
“Last night, sir, after dinner.”