"The house is pretty famous, too," he went on. "Joseph Bonaparte lived here for a while, you know, and when Fulton tried his steamboat—"
"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Hilliard, icily, "we know."
"Beg pardon," returned the servant, taking the order slip. "Out of town people generally like to be told."
"It's no use, Cora," rallied Shelby, at the first opportunity. "You're handicapped. You'll never pass for a native while I'm along." He divined that she was vexed, and shifted instantly. "Thank you for bringing me here. After this day of ours we couldn't have picked a finer sundown."
"Sundown—and the end."
Shelby threw her a glance, and beckoning the waiter, added champagne to his order.
"We'll not let the celebration peter out in the dumps," he declared.
She demurred faintly. She was unused to wine with her meals, she said; Joe had old-fashioned ideas about women and wine, and so on; but in the end they shared the bottle equally, and the holiday took a new lease of life. Night set in before they finished. The river went black and mysterious, the shipping lights winked forth like glow-worms, and the illuminated walking beam of a ferry-boat minced a fantastic progress from shore to shore. The sometime home of the ex-King of Spain flowered within and without with electricity, and life simplified itself to cakes and ale.
From the steps they watched their hansom detach itself from the long line of yellow-eyed monsters waiting in the outer gloom.
"It must end now," sighed Mrs. Hilliard. "There's the theatre,—why not? New York is so big."