Ellice Quentin, and other storiesHawthorne, Julian
General
Ellice Quentin, and other stories
Hawthorne, Julian
American fiction -- 19th century; Short stories, American
Had this suggestion been advanced earlier, it would have made
an important modification in my plans; but it was now too late
to draw back. I bethought myself, too, that it was highly
improbable--considering how short a time she had been in town--that
she should have received an invitation; and if the worst came to
the worst, I could slip away whenever I chose. We went on up the
illuminated staircase, therefore, and having delivered our credentials
to the doorkeeper--a warrior of the sixteenth century, armed cap-à-pie
in panoply of proof--we advanced to pay our respects to the host and
hostess of the occasion, who smiled to us in the guise of Nutcracker
and Sugardolly.
'It is the greatest pleasure that I meet you,' said the former,
in broken English, but with entire cordiality, holding my hand
affectionately as he spoke. 'We have too little seen of you here--you
are too much to yourself. It shall be our hope that you now do us
the honour very often. You shall find some of your compatriots here
to-night, I think, all very anxious to enjoy the favour of your
presentation. Dear sir, till our next meet!'
Meanwhile, Madame Sugardolly was saying something equally civil to
Floyd. That was natural enough; his wealth and consequent importance
were probably well known; but I was at a loss to understand such
a sudden access of flattering attention to me. I was nobody, and
accustomed to be treated accordingly. Could my worthy banker be
labouring under the delusion that I was somebody else?
Leaving this question to solve itself, I took Floyd's arm, and we
threaded our way slowly through the brilliantly and grotesquely
attired crowd. Many a quaint and graceful figure was there, but none
with which either of us was familiar. I saw that Floyd was keeping a
keen look out for some one, and had no difficulty in guessing who it
might be. But we made the circuit of all the rooms in vain. We drifted
at length into the haven of a small side-room, curtained off from the
other apartments by a heavy _portière_ hanging across the doorway.
Lights were burning in it, and a comfortable sofa stood at one end, but
there was no one there. It was a discovery of our own.
'Tell you what we'll do, old chap,' said Floyd. 'It is now eleven
o'clock. Let us separate here, and pursue our several fortunes for the
space of an hour; after which--that is, at twelve precisely--we will
rendezvous in this room and compare notes. What say you?'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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