They got out of the carriage, and climbed the stoop, over which an awning had been erected. The door was opened by a negro, in dress-suit and white gloves. The rabbi, pursuant to Elias's request, turned at once into the parlor, where already a half-dozen early arrivals were assembled. Elias, bearing the rabbi's hat and overcoat, hurried up the staircase to the room that had been set apart for him. There, having slammed the door behind him, he flung himself into an easy-chair, took his head between his hands, closed his eyes, and strove with might and main to summon a little strength, a little composure.
“There is no more chance of its taking place, than there is of the sun's failing to rise to-morrow morning”—that phrase had begun again to ring hideously in his ears.
Pretty soon he became aware that he was no longer alone. Somebody had entered the room, and was speaking to him. He looked up. Dazed and dizzy, as if through a veil, he saw old Redwood standing before him.
“Did you speak? What did you say?” he asked.
“I said how-d'ye-do,” answered Redwood. “You look sort of rattled. What's the matter with you?”
“Oh, nothing. I'm very well, thank you. How—where is Christine?”
“Oh, she's busy making her toilet—she and her friends. They've been at it pretty much all the afternoon. But, I say, brace up. Would you like something to drink?”
“No. Much obliged, but I—I'm all right. Only a little excited you know.”
“And, by the way, who was that old party that came in with ye—black and white?”
“Black and white?”