It was a busy day for him, but I could see that he found it enjoyable, and strangely was it borne in upon me that Miss Caroline's ancient stuff was in some sense desirable.
More than once did Price permit some sign of emotion to be read in his face—as when the sixth chair of a certain set was at last found supporting a water-pail in the kitchen. The house was not large, but it was crowded, and Price was frankly surprised at the number of things it held.
At six o'clock he went to dine with me, Miss Caroline having told him that I was authorized to act for her on any proposal he might have to make.
"You have saved me again," he said warmly, in the midst of Clem's dinner. "I assure you, Major, that hotel is infamous. I'm surprised, you know, that something isn't done about it by the authorities."
I had to confess that the City Hotel was very highly regarded by most of our citizens.
Again, after a brief interval of stupefaction, did James Walsingham Price call upon his Maker. "And yet," he murmured, "we are spending millions annually to impose mere theology upon savages far less benighted. Think for a moment what a tithe of that money would do for these poor people. Take the matter of green salads alone—to say nothing of soups—don't you have so simple a thing as lettuce here?"
"We do," I said, "but it's regarded as a trifle. They put vinegar and sugar on it and cut it up with their knives."
My guest shuddered.
"I dare say it's hopeless, but I shall always be glad to remember that you exist away from your City Hotel."
Thus did we reach the coffee and some cognac which the late L.Q. Peavey had gifted me with by the hands of his estimable kinswoman.