CHAPTER XXI. THE OFFICE
On the following day the cashier sent for me to say it was Herr Oppovich’s wish that I should be attached to some department in the office, till I had fully mastered its details, and then be transferred to another, and so on, till I had gradually acquainted myself with the whole business of the house. “It’s an old caprice of Herr Ignaz’s,” said he, “which repeated failures have not yet discouraged him with. You ‘re the fifth he has tried to make a supervisor of, and you’ll follow the rest.”
“Is it so very difficult to learn?” asked I, modestly.
“Perhaps to one of your acquirements it might not,” said he, with quiet irony, “but, for a slight example: here, in this office, we correspond with five countries in their own languages; yonder, in that room, they talk modern Greek and Albanian and Servian; there’s the Hungarian group, next that bow window, and that takes in the Lower Danube; and in what we call the Expeditions department there are; fellows who speak seventeen dialects, and can write ten or twelve. So much for languages. Then what do you say to mastering – since that’s the word they have for it – the grain trade from Russia, rags from Transylvania, staves from Hungary, fruit from the Levant, cotton from Egypt, minerals from Lower Austria, and woollen fabrics from Bohemia? We do something in all of these, besides a fair share in oak bark and hemp.”
“Stop, for mercy’s sake!” I cried out “It would take a lifetime to gain a mere current knowledge of these.”
“Then, there’s the finance department,” said he; “watching the rise and fall of the exchanges, buying and selling gold. Herr Ulrich, in that office with the blue door, could tell you it’s not to be picked up of an afternoon. Perhaps you might as well begin with him; his is not a bad school to take the fine edge off you.”
“I shall do whatever you advise me.”
“I’ll speak to Herr Ulrich, then,” said he; and he left me, to return almost immediately, and conduct me within the precincts of the blue door.
Herr Ulrich was a tall, thin, ascetic-looking man, with his hair brushed rigidly back from the narrowest head I ever saw. His whole idea of life was the office, which he arrived at by daybreak, and never left, except to visit the Bourse, till late at night. He disliked, of all things, new faces about him; and it was a piece of malice on the cashier’s part to bring me before him.
“I believed I had explained to Herr Ignaz already,” said he to the cashier, “that I am not a schoolmaster.”
“Well, well,” broke in the other, in a muffled voice, “try the lad. He may not be so incompetent. They tell me he has had some education.”
Herr Ulrich raised his spectacles, and surveyed me from head to foot for some seconds. “You have been in the yard?” said he, in question.
“Yes, sir.”
“And is counting oaken staves the first step to learning foreign exchanges, think you?”
“I should say not, sir.”
“I know whose scheme this is, well enough,” muttered he. “I see it all. That will do. You may leave us to talk together alone,” said he to the cashier. “Sit down there, lad; there ‘s your own famous newspaper, the ‘Times.’ Make me a précis of the money article as it touches Austrian securities and Austrian enterprises; contrast the report there given with what that French paper contains; and don’t leave till it be finished.” He returned to his high stool as he spoke, and resumed his work. On the table before me lay a mass of newspapers in different languages; and I sat down to examine them with the very vaguest notion of what was expected of me.
Determined to do something, – whatever that something might be, – I opened the “Times” to find out the money article; but, little versed in journalism, I turned from page to page without discovering it. At last I thought I should find it by carefully scanning the columns; and so I began at the top and read the various headings, which happened to be those of the trials then going on. There was a cause of salvage on the part of the owners of the “Lively Jane;” there was a disputed ownership of certain dock warrants for indigo, a breach of promise case, and a suit for damages for injuries incurred on the rail. None of these, certainly, were financial articles. At the head of the next column I read: “Court of Probate and Divorce, – Mr. Spanks moved that the decree nisi, in the suit of Cleremont v. Cleremont, be made absolute. Motion allowed. The damages in this suit against Sir Roger Norcott have been fixed at eight thousand five hundred pounds.”
From these lines I could not turn my eyes. They revealed nothing, it is true, but what I knew well must happen; but there is that in a confirmation of a fact brought suddenly before us, that always awakens deep reflection: and now I brought up before my mind my poor mother, deserted and forsaken, and my father, ruined in character, and perhaps in fortune.
I had made repeated attempts to find out my mother’s address, but all my letters had failed to reach her. Could there be any chance of discovering her through this suit? Was it possible that she might have intervened in any way in it? And, last of all, would this lawyer, whose name appeared in the proceedings, take compassion on my unhappy condition, and aid me to discover where my mother was? I meditated long over all this, and I ended by convincing myself that there are few people in the world who are not well pleased to do a kind thing which costs little in the doing; and so I resolved I would write to Mr. Spanks, and address him at the court he practised in. I could not help feeling that it was at a mere straw I was grasping; but nothing more tangible lay within my «reach. I wrote thus: —
“Sir, – I am the son and only child of Sir Roger and Lady Norcott; and seeing that you have lately conducted a suit against my father, I ask you, as a great favor, to let me know where my mother is now living, that I may write to her. I know that I am taking a great liberty in obtruding this request upon you; but I am very friendless, and very little versed in worldly knowledge. Will you let both these deficiencies plead for me? and let me sign myself
“Your grateful servant,
“Digby Norcott.
“You can address me at the house of Hodnig and Oppovich, Fiume, Austria, where I am living as a clerk, and under the name of Digby Owen, – Owen being the name of my mother’s family.”
I was not very well pleased with the composition of this letter; but it had one recommendation, which I chiefly sought for, – it was short, and for this reason I hoped it might be favorably received. I read it over and over, each time seeing some new fault, or some omission to correct; and then I would turn again to the newspaper, and ponder over the few words that meant so much and yet revealed so little. How my mother’s position would be affected – if at all – by this decision I could not tell. Indeed, it was the mere accident of hearing divorce discussed at my father’s table that enabled me to know what the terms of the law implied. And thus I turned from my letter to the newspaper, and back again from the newspaper to my letter, so engrossed by the theme that I forgot where I was, and utterly forgot all about that difficult task Herr Ulrich had set me. Intense thought and weariness of mind, aided by the unbroken stillness of the place, made me heavy and drowsy. From poring over the paper, I gradually bent down till my head rested on it, and I fell sound asleep.
I must have passed hours thus, for it was already evening when I awoke. Herr Ulrich was about to leave the office, and had his hat on, as he aroused me.
“It is supper-time, youngster,” said he, laying his hand on my shoulder. “Yes, you may well wonder where you are. What are you looking for?”
“I thought, sir, I had written a letter Just before I fell asleep. I was writing here.” And I turned over the papers and shook them, tossing them wildly about, to discover the letter, but in vain. It was not there. Could it have been that I had merely composed it in my mind, and never have committed it to paper? But that could scarcely be, seeing how fresh in my memory were all the doubts and hesitations that had beset me.
“I am sure I wrote a letter here,” said I, trying to recall each circumstance to my mind.
“When you have finished dreaming, lad, I will lock the door,” said he, waiting to see me pass out.
“Forgive me one moment, sir, only one,” cried I, wildly, scattering the papers over the table. “It is of consequence to me – what I have written.”
“That is, if you have written anything,” said he, dryly.
The grave tone of this doubt determined the conflict in my mind.
“I suppose you are right,” said I; “it was a dream.” And I arose and followed him out.
As I reached the foot of the stairs, I came suddenly on Herr Ignaz and his daughter. It was a common thing for her to come and accompany him home at the end of the day’s work; and as latterly he had become much broken and very feeble, she scarcely missed a day in this attention. “Oh, here he is!” I heard her say as I came up. What he replied I could not catch, but it was with some earnestness he rejoined, —
“Herr von Owen, my father wishes to say that they have mistaken his instructions regarding you in the office. He never expected you could at once possess yourself of all the details of a varied business; he meant that you should go about and see what branch you would like to attach yourself to, and to do this he will give you ample time. Take a week; take two; a month, if you like.” And she made a little gesture of friendly adieu with her hand, and passed on.
CHAPTER XXII. UNWISHED-FOR PROMOTION
The morning after this brief intimation I attached myself to that department of the house whose business was to receive and reply to telegraphic messages. I took that group of countries whose languages I knew, and addressed myself to my task in right earnest. An occupation whose chief feature is emergency will always possess a certain interest, but beyond this there was not anything attractive in my present pursuit. A peremptory message to sell this or buy that, to push on vigorously with a certain enterprise or to suspend all action in another, would perhaps form the staple of a day’s work. When disasters occurred, too, it was their monetary feature alone was recorded. The fire that consumed a warehouse was told with reference to the amount insured; the shipwreck was related by incidents that bore on the lost cargo, and the damage incurred. Still it was less monotonous than the work of the office, and I had a certain pride in converting the messages – sometimes partly, sometimes totally unintelligible – into language that could be understood, that imparted a fair share of ambition to my labor.
My duty was to present myself, with my book in which I had entered the despatches, each evening, at supper-time, at Herr Ignaz’s house. He would be at table with his daughter when I arrived, and the interview would pass somewhat in this wise: Herr Oppovich would take the book from my hands without a word or even a look at me, and the Fraulein, with a gentle bend of the head, but without the faintest show of more intimate greeting, would acknowledge mc. She would continue to eat as I stood there, as unmindful of me as though I were a servant. Having scanned the book over, he would hand it across to his daughter, and then would ensue a few words in whisper, after which the Fräulein would write opposite each message some word of reply or of comment such as, “Already provided for,” “Further details wanted,” “Too late,” or such like, but never more than a few words, and these she would write freely, and only consulting herself. The old man – whose memory failed him more and more every day, and whose general debility grew rapidly – did no more than glance at the answers and nod an acceptance of them. In giving the book back to me, she rarely looked up, but if she did so, and if her eyes met mine, their expression was cold and almost defiant; and thus, with a slight bend of the head, I would be dismissed.
Nor was this reception the less chilling that, before I had well closed the door, they would be in full conversation again, showing that my presence it was which had inspired the constraint and reserve. These, it might be thought, were not very proud nor blissful moments to me, and yet they formed the happiest incident of my day, and I actually longed for the hour, as might a lover to meet his mistress. To gaze at will upon her pale and beautiful face, to watch the sunlight as it played upon her golden hair, which she wore – in some fashion, perhaps, peculiar to her race – in heavy masses of curls, that fell over her back and shoulders; her hand, too, a model of symmetry, and with the fingers rose-tipped, like the goddesses of Homer, affected me as a spell; and I have stood there unconsciously staring at it till warned by a second admonition to retire.
Perhaps the solitude in which I lived helped to make me dwell more thoughtfully on this daily-recurring interview; for I went nowhere, I associated with no one, I dined alone, and my one brisk walk for health and exercise I took by myself. When evening came, and the other clerks frequented the theatre, I went home to read, or as often to sit and think.
“Sara tells me,” said the old man one day, when some rare chance had brought him to my office, – “Sara tells me that you are suffering from over-confinement. She thinks you look pale and worn, and that this constant work is telling on you.”
“Far from it, sir. I am both well and happy; and if I needed to be made happier, this thoughtful kindness would make me so.”
“Yes; she is very kind, and very thoughtful too; but, as well as these, she is despotic,” said he, with a faint laugh; “and so she has decided that you are to exchange with M. Marsac, who will be here by Saturday, and who will put you up to all the details of his walk. He buys our timber for us in Hungary and Transylvania; and he, too, will enjoy a little rest from constant travel.”
“I don’t speak Hungarian, sir,” began I, eager to offer an opposition to the plan.
“Sara says you are a quick learner, and will soon acquire it, – at least, enough for traffic.”
“It is a business, too, that I suspect requires much insight into the people and their ways.”
“You can’t learn them younger, lad; and as all those we deal with are old clients of the house, you will not be much exposed to rogueries.”
“But if I make mistakes, sir? If I involve you in difficulty and in loss?”
“You ‘ll repay it by zeal, lad, and by devotion, as we have seen you do here.”
He waved his hand in adieu, and left me to my own thoughts. Very sad thoughts they were, as they told me of separation from her that gave the whole charm to my life. Sara’s manner to me had been so markedly cold and distant for some time past, so unlike what it had been at first, that I could not help feeling that, by ordering me away, some evidence of displeasure was to be detected. The old man I at once exculpated, for every day showed him less and less alive to the business of “the House;” though, from habit, he persisted in coming down every morning to the office, and believed himself the guide and director of all that went on there.
I puzzled myself long to think what I could have done to forfeit her favor. I had never in the slightest degree passed that boundary of deference that I was told she liked to exact from all in the service of the house. I had neglected no duty, nor, having no intimates or associates, had I given opportunity to report of me that I had said this or that of my employers. I scrutinized every act of my daily life, and suggested every possible and impossible cause for this coldness; but without approaching a reason at all probable. While I thus doubted and disputed with myself, the evening despatches arrived, and among them a letter addressed to myself. It bore the post-mark of the town alone, with this superscription, “Digby Owen, Esq., at Messrs. Oppovich’s, Fiume.” I tore it open and read, —
“The address you wish for is, ‘Lady Norcott, Sunday’s Well, Cork, Ireland.’”
The writing looked an English hand, and the language was English. There was no date, nor any signature. Could it have been, then, that I had folded and sealed and sent on my letter – that letter I believed I had never written – without knowing it, and that the lawyer had sent me this reply, which, though long delayed, might have been postponed till he had obtained the tidings it conveyed? At all events, I had got my dear mother’s address, – at least I hoped so. This point I resolved to ascertain at once, and sat down to write to her. It was a very flurried note I composed, though I did my very best to be collected. I told her how and where I was, and by what accident of fortune I had come here; that I had reasonable hopes of advancement, and even now had a salary which was larger than I needed. I was afraid to say much of what I wished to tell her, till I was sure my letter would reach her; and I entreated her to write to me by return of post, were it but a line. I need not say how many loves I sent her, nor what longings to be again beside her, to hold her hand, and hear her voice, and call her by that dearest of all the names affection cherishes. “I am going from this in a few days into Hungary,” added I; “but address me here, and it shall be sent after me.
When I had finished my letter, I again turned my thoughts to this strange communication, so abrupt and so short. How came it to Fiume, too? Was it enclosed in some other letter, and to whom? If posted in Fiume, why not written there? Ay; but by whom? Who could know that I had wished for my mother’s address? It was a secret buried in my own heart.
I suddenly determined I would ask the Fraulein Sara to aid me in unravelling this mystery, which, of course, I could do without disclosing the contents of the note. I hurried off to the house, and asked if she would permit me to speak to her.
“Yes. The Fräulein was going out; but if my business was brief, she would see me.”
She was in bonnet and shawl as I entered, and stood with one hand on a table, looking very calm but somewhat haughty.
“I beg your pardon, M. Owen,” said she, “if I say that I can only give you a few minutes, and will not ask you even to sit down. If it be a matter of the office – ”
“No, Mademoiselle; it is not a matter of the office – ”
“Then, if it relate to your change of occupation – ”
“No, Mademoiselle, not even to that. It is a purely personal question. I have got a letter, with a Fiume postmark on it, but without the writer’s name; and I am curious to know if you could aid me to discover him. Would you look at the hand and see if it be known to you?”
“Pray excuse me, M. Owen. I am the stupidest of all people in reading riddles or solving difficulties. All the help I can give you is to say how I treat anonymous letters myself. If they be simply insults, I burn them. If they relate what appear to be matters of fact, I wait and watch for them.”
Offended by the whole tone of her manner, I bowed, and moved towards the door.
“Have you seen M. Marsac? I hear he has arrived.”
“No, Mademoiselle; not yet.”
“When you have conferred and consulted with him, your instructions are all prepared; and I suppose you are ready to start?”
“I shall be, Mademoiselle, when called upon.”
“I will say good-bye, then,” said she, advancing one step towards me, evidently intending to offer me her hand; but I replied by a low, very low bow, and retired.
I thought I should choke as I went down the stairs. My throat seemed to swell, and then to close up; and when I gained the shelter of the thick trees, I threw myself down on my face in the grass, and sobbed as if my heart was breaking. How I vowed and swore that I would tear every recollection of her from my mind, and never think more of her, and how her image ever came back clearer and brighter and more beautiful before me after each oath!
CHAPTER XXIII. THE MAN WHO TRAVELLED FOR OUR HOUSE
As I sat brooding over my fire that same evening, my door was suddenly opened, and a large burly man, looming even larger from an immense fur pelisse that he wore, entered. His first care was to divest himself of a tall Astracan cap, from which he flung off some snow-flakes, and then to throw off his pelisse, stamping the snow from his great boots, which reached half-way up the thigh.
“You see,” cried he, at last, with a jovial air, – “you see I come, like a good comrade, and make myself at home at once.”
“I certainly see so much,” said I, dryly; “but whom have I the honor to receive?”
“You have the honor to receive Gustave Maurice de Marsac, young man, a gentleman of Dauphiné, who now masquerades in the character of first traveller for the respectable house of Hodnig and Oppovich.”
“I am proud to make your acquaintance, M. de Marsac,” said I, offering my band.
“What age are you?” cried he, staring fixedly at me. “You can’t be twenty?”
“No, I am not twenty.”
“And they purpose to send you down to replace me!” cried he; and he threw himself back in his chair, and shook with laughter.
“I see all the presumption; but I can only say it was none of my doing.”
“No, no; don’t say presumption,” said he, in a half-coaxing tone. “But I may say it, without vanity, it is not every man’s gift to be able to succeed Gustave de Marsac. May I ask for a cigar? Thanks. A real Cuban, I verily believe. I finished my tobacco two posts from this, and have been smoking all the samples – pepper and hemp-seed amongst them – since then.”
“May I offer you something to eat?”
“You may, if you accompany it with something to drink. Would you believe it, Oppovich and his daughter were at supper when I arrived to report myself; and neither of them as much as said, Chevalier – I mean Mon. de Marsac – won’t you do us the honor to join us? No. Old Ignaz went on with his meal, – cold veal and a potato salad, I think it was; and the fair Sara examined my posting-book to see I had made no delay on the road; but neither offered me even the courtesy of a glass of wine.”
“I don’t suspect it was from any want of hospitality,” I began.
“An utter want of everything, mon cher. Want of decency; want of delicacy; want of due deference to a man of birth and blood. I see you are sending your servant out. Now, I beg, don’t make a stranger – don’t make what we call a ‘Prince Russe’ of me. A little quiet supper, and something to wash it down; good fellowship will do the rest. May I give your man the orders?”
“You will confer a great favor on me,” said I.
He took my servant apart, and whispered a few minutes with him at the window. “Try Kleptomitz first,” said he aloud, as the man was leaving; “and mind you say M. Marsac sent you. Smart ‘bursche’ you’ve got there. If you don’t take him with you, hand him over to me.”
“I will do so,” said I; “and am happy to have secured him a good master.”
“You’ll not know him when you pass through Fiume again. I believe there’s not my equal in Europe to drill a servant. Give me a Chinese, an Esquimau; give me a Hottentot, and in six months you shall see him announce a visitor, deliver a letter, wait at table, or serve coffee, with the quiet dignity and the impassive steadiness of the most accomplished lackey. The three servants of Fiume were made by me, and their fortunes also. One has now the chief restaurant at Rome, in the Piazza di Spagna; the other is manager of the ‘Iron Crown Hotel,’ at Zurich; he wished to have it called the ‘Arms of Marsac,’ but I forbade him. I said, ‘No, Pierre, no. The De Marsacs are now travelling incog.’ Like the Tavannes and the Rohans, we have to wait and bide our time. Louis Napoleon is not immortal. Do you think he is?”
“I have no reason to think so.”
“Well, well, you are too young to take interest in politics; not but that I did at fourteen: I conspired at fourteen! I will show you a stiletto Mazzini gave me on my birthday; and the motto on the blade was, ‘Au service du. Roi.’ Ah! you are surprised at what I tell you. I hear you say to yourself, ‘How the devil did he come to this place? what led him to Fiume?’ A long story that; a story poor old Dumas would give one of his eyes for. There’s more adventure, more scrapes by villany, dangers and deathblows generally, in the last twenty-two years of my life – I am now thirty-six – than in all the Monte Cristos that ever were written. I will take the liberty to put another log on your fire. What do you say if we lay the cloth? It will expedite matters a little.”
“With all my heart. Here are all my household goods,” said I, opening a little press in the wall.
“And not to be despised, by any means. Show me what a man drinks out of, and I’ll tell you what he drinks. When a man has got thin glasses like these, —à la Mousseline, as we say, – his tipple is Bordeaux.”
“I confess the weakness,” said I, laughing.
“It is my own infirmity too,” said he, sighing. “My theory is, plurality of wines is as much a mistake as plurality of wives. Coquette, if you will, with fifty, but give your affections to one. If I am anything, I am moral. What can keep your fellow so long? I gave him but two commissions.”
“Perhaps the shops were closed at this hour.”
“If they were, sir,” said he, pompously, “at the word ‘Marsac’ they would open. Ha! what do I see here? – a piano? Am I at liberty to open it?” And without waiting for a reply, he sat down, and ran his hands over the keys with a masterly facility. As he flew over the octaves, and struck chords of splendid harmony, I could not help feeling an amount of credit in all his boastful declarations just from this one trait of real power about him.
“I see you are a rare musician,” said I.
“And it is what I know least,” said he; “though Flotow said one day, ‘If that rascal De Marsac takes to writing operas, I ‘ll never compose another. ‘But here comes the supper;” and as he spoke my servant entered with a small basket with six bottles in it; two waiters following him, bearing a good-sized tin box, with a charcoal fire beneath.
“Well and perfectly done,” exclaimed my guest, as he aided them to place the soup on the table, and to dispose some hors d’oeuvre of anchovies, caviare, ham, and fresh butter on the board. “I am sorry we have no flowers. I love a bouquet A few camellias for color, and some violets for odor. They relieve the grossness of the material enjoyments; they poetize the meal; and if you have no women at table, mon cher, be sure to have flowers: not that I object to both together. There, now, is our little bill of fare, – a white soup, a devilled mackerel, some truffles, with butter, and a capon with stewed mushrooms. Oysters there are none, not even those native shrimps they call scampi; but the wine will compensate for much: the wine is Roediger; champagne, with a faint suspicion of dryness. And as he has brought ice, we ‘ll attack that Bordeaux you spoke of till the other be cool enough for drinking.”
As he rattled on thus, it was not very easy for me to assure myself whether I was host or guest; but as I saw that this consideration did not distress him, I resolved it should not weigh heavily on me.
“I ordered a compote of peaches with maraschino. Go after them and say it has been forgotten.” And now, as he dismissed my servant on this errand, he sat down and served the soup, doing the honors of the board in all form. “You are called – ”
“Digby is my Christian name,” interrupted I, “and you can call me by it.”
“Digby, I drink to your health; and if the wine had been only a little warmer, I ‘d say I could not wish to do so in a more generous fluid. No fellow of your age knows how to air his Bordeaux; hot flannels to the caraffe before decanting are all that is necessary, and let your glasses also be slightly warmed. To sip such claret as this, and then turn one’s eyes to that champagne yonder in the ice-pail, is like the sensation of a man who in his honeymoon fancies how happy he will be one of these days, en secondes noces. Don’t you feel a sense of triumphant enjoyment at this moment? Is there not something at your heart that says, ‘Hodnig and Oppovich, I despise you! To the regions I soar in you cannot come! To the blue ether I have risen, your very vision cannot reach!’ Eh, boy! tell me this.”
“No; I don’t think you have rightly measured my feelings. On the whole, I rather suspect I bear a very good will to these same people who have enabled me to have these comforts.”
“You pretend, then, to what they call gratitude?”
“I have that weakness.”
“I could as soon believe in the heathen mythology! I like the man who is kind to me while he is doing the kindness, and I could, if occasion served, be kind to him in turn; but to say that I could retain such a memory of the service after years that it would renew in me the first pleasant sensations it created, and with these sensations the goodwill to requite them, is downright rubbish. You might as well tell me that I could get drank simply by remembering the orgie I assisted at ten years ago.”
“I protest against your sentiment and your logic too.”
“Then we won’t dispute the matter. We’ll talk of something we can agree upon. Let us abuse Sara.”
“If you do, you’ll choose some other place to do it.”
“What, do you mean to tell me that you can stand the haughty airs and proud pretensions of the young Jewess?”
“I mean to tell you that I know nothing of the Fräulein Oppovich but what is amiable and good.”
“What do I care for amiable and good? I want a girl to be graceful, well-mannered, pleasing, lively to talk, and eager to listen. There, now, don’t get purple about the cheeks, and flash at me such fiery looks. Here’s the champagne, and we ‘ll drink a bumper to her.”
“Take some other name for your toast, or I ‘ll fling your bottle out of the window.”
“You will, will you!” said he, setting down his glass, and measuring me from head to foot.
“I swear it”
“I like that spirit, Digby; I’ll be shot if I don’t,” said he, taking my hand, which I did not give very willingly. “You are just what I was some fifteen or twenty years ago, – warm, impulsive, and headstrong. It’s the world – that vile old mill, the world – grinds that generous nature out of one! I declare I don’t believe that a spark of real trustfulness survives a man’s first moustaches, – and yours are very faint, very faint indeed; there ‘s a suspicion of smut on the upper lip, and some small capillary flourishes along your cheek. That wine is too sweet. I ‘ll return to the Bordeaux.”