Wilder ate very little and spoke scarcely at all, I think the only thing he said in the way of conversation was "I never have servants in the room when I am eating;" and I said to myself, "Thank goodness." Just imagine how I would have felt if one of those dreadful men-servants had been gliding about the room,—my wristbands all frayed, my hands not very clean, for those cheap gloves dye one's hands, and my collar crumpled.
Wilder wanted to open me some champagne, but I said no. I thought he looked pleased. He had a decanter before him, and he poured himself out a glass from it.
"I don't ask you to take this," he said in an apologetic sort of manner; "because it would—well a glass of it would kill you, it's opium, I am used to it—all the worry I have had——" His head sunk on his breast, and I felt sorry for him, though he was so rich and lived in such a beautiful house. After a moment he looked up—we had finished eating.
"Gerald," he said, "I want you to be happy; poor soul, you have suffered too, but perhaps it is for the best."
"Why do you call me Gerald?" I asked, staring at him. A dreamy look had come over his strange face, perhaps it was the opium.
"Did I call you Gerald?" he said, "well, you will know why soon, I want you to be happy."
He rose from the table. "Come," he said, "I will show you to your room."
I followed him into the hall, then up a great broad staircase carpeted with soft fleecy carpet; on the first landing he opened a door.
"This is your room," he said, "you will find everything you require; when you are ready come downstairs and you will find the carriage waiting."
He shut the door on me, and I found myself alone.