“Many of them,” he said, “I have left at Pine Croft—our home, you know, in Windermere. But a number of them I have brought with me. I should like to show them to you.”
“Oh, do,” she cried. “Will you bring them to me? I should like to see them.”
It was late afternoon when her father appeared, ready for music and for more music. But with delicate tact she made Paul feel that it was her desire that the old gentleman should not be unduly excited but that he should save his full strength for his evening service. Thereupon Paul took his leave, promising himself the pleasure of hearing the old musician once more at the church that evening. “And afterwards come home with us.” To this Paul eagerly agreed.
The boarding house which late on Saturday night, upon his arrival in the strange city, Paul had stumbled upon had but one redeeming feature, it was cheap. The rooms were ill kept, the table service was dirty, the boarders were noisy and ill-mannered, and the keeper of the house was overworked and consequently unsympathetic to the wants of her guests. As Paul was passing up the dark and filthy staircase to his room a young man came lounging out of his bedroom and stumbled down, the stairs, lurching heavily against Paul.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t see you.”
“All right,” said Paul. “It is dark, isn’t it?”
Something in his voice arrested the young fellow. “You are a new boarder here?” he said.
“Yes. I came last night. My name is Gaspard.”
“And mine is Dalton,” said the young man, turning back with Paul. “Come into my room. I want to talk to you. It is Heaven’s own mercy to meet a gentleman in this God-forsaken hole. Sit down. I want to talk to someone. I must talk to someone.”
Dalton had apparently been drinking heavily. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands were trembling, he had the wretched appearance of a man recovering from a bout.