“Go away, Albert!” said she, “or we shall quarrel. Go back and find my fan—I left it on the mantel in the library. The house is lighted yet; and I was going to send you back anyhow. Kiss me, and go, please.”
I felt that if Alice had had in her memory my vision of the supper at Auriccio’s, she would have been confirmed in her fears; but to me, in spite of the memory, they seemed absurd. My only apprehension was that she might be right as to the final outcome, to the wreck of Jim’s hopes. I did not take the matter at all seriously, in fact. I think we men must usually have such an affair worked out to some conclusion, for weal or woe, before we regard it otherwise than lightly. That was the reason that Giddings’s distraught condition was only a matter of laughter to all of us. And as something like this passed through my mind, Giddings himself collared me as I crossed the street.
“Old man!” said he, “congratulate me! It’s all right, Barslow, it’s all right.”
“Up on the battlements, are you?” said I. “Well, I congratulate you, Giddings; and don’t make such an ass of yourself, please, any more. I never noticed until this evening what a fine girl Laura is. You’re really a very fortunate fellow indeed!”
“You never noticed it!” said he with utter scorn. “Well, if—”
“It’s late,” said I. “Come and see me in the morning! Good-night.”
I went in at the front door of the house. It stood wide open, as if the current of guests passing out had removed its tendency to swing shut. It seemed lonely now, inside, with all the decorations of the assembly still in place in the empty hall. I passed into the library, and found Jim sitting idly in a great leather chair. He seemed not to see me; or if he did, he paid no attention. I went to the mantel, picked up Alice’s fan, and turned to Jim.
“Sit down,” said he.
“Having a sort of ‘oft in the stilly night’ experience, Jim, or a case of William the Conqueror on the Field of Hastings?”
“Yes,” said he. “Something like that.”