"Luxury! Great Scott," thought Seabury. "This dubbing a palace a cottage is the worse sort of affectation, and I'll tell Jack Austin so, too."
The elevator stopped; the doors clicked open; Seabury turned smilingly to Cecil Gay, but she hurried past him, crimson-cheeked, head bent, and he followed his pilot to his room.
"Dinner is hannounced at 'awf awfter height, sir," announced the man with dignity.
"Thank you," said Seabury, watching a valet do sleight-of-hand tricks with the contents of his suit-case. And when he was alone he hopped nimbly out of his apparel and into a bath and out again in a high state of excitement, talking to himself all the while he was dressing.
"Good old Jack! The Mrs. must have had the means to do this sort of thing so well. I'm delighted!—de—lighted!... If ever a man deserved affluence, it's Jack Austin! It suits him. It will do him good. It becomes him.... Plucky fellow to go on grinding at the law!... Only thing to do, of course—decent thing to do—self-respect and all that.... But, by jingo!"—he looked about him as he stood buttoning his collar. "Hah!" stepping to the wall and examining a picture—"Great Jenkins!—why, here's a real Fortuny—in a bedroom!"
He cared for good pictures, and he stood before the exquisite aquarelle as long as he dared. Then, glancing at his watch, he completed his toilet, opened his door, and, scorning the lift, fled blithely down the great staircase on pleasing bent—and on being pleased.
A big drawing-room, charmingly lighted, and gay already with the chatter and laughter of a very jolly throng—this is what confronted him as a servant offered him a tray containing cards.
"I don't see my name here," he said, examining the slim envelopes.
"Beg pardon, sir—what name, sir?"
"Mr. Seabury."