Transcribed from the 1897 David Douglas edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org [Picture: Book cover] THE GAROTTERS BY WILLIAM D. HOWELLS [Picture: Decorative graphic] _Author’s Edition_ * * * * * EDINBURGH DAVID DOUGLAS, CASTLE STREET 1897 _For leave to act_, _apply to the publisher_ _All rights reserved_ * * * * * EDINBURGH: Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE for DAVID DOUGLAS LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND CO. PART FIRST I MRS. ROBERTS; THEN MR. ROBERTS AT the window of her apartment in Hotel Bellingham, Mrs. Roberts stands looking out into the early nightfall. A heavy snow is driving without, and from time to time the rush of the wind and the sweep of the flakes against the panes are heard. At the sound of hurried steps in the anteroom, Mrs. Roberts turns from the window, and runs to the _portière_, through which she puts her head. MRS. ROBERTS: ‘Is that you, Edward? So dark here! We ought really to keep the gas turned up all the time.’ MR. ROBERTS, in a muffled voice, from without: ‘Yes, it’s I.’ MRS. ROBERTS: ‘Well, hurry in to the fire, do! Ugh, what a storm! Do you suppose anybody will come? You must be half frozen, you poor thing! Come quick, or you’ll certainly perish!’ She flies from the _portière_ to the fire burning on the hearth, pokes it, flings on a log, jumps back, brushes from her dress with a light shriek the sparks driven out upon it, and continues talking incessantly in a voice lifted for her husband to hear in the anteroom. ‘If I’d dreamed it was any such storm as this, I should never have let you go out in it in the world. It wasn’t at all necessary to have the flowers. I could have got on perfectly well, and I believe _now_ the table would look better without them. The chrysanthemums would have been quite enough; and I know you’ve taken more cold. I could tell it by your voice as soon as you spoke; and just as quick as they’re gone to-night I’m going to have you bathe your feet in mustard and hot water, and take eight of aconite, and go straight to bed. And I don’t want you to eat very much at dinner, dear, and you must be sure not to drink any coffee, or the aconite won’t be of the least use.’ She turns and encounters her husband, who enters through the _portière_, his face pale, his eyes wild, his white necktie pulled out of knot, and his shirt front rumpled. ‘Why, Edward, what in the world is the matter? What has happened?’ ROBERTS, sinking into a chair: ‘Get me a glass of water, Agnes—wine—whisky—brandy—’