as it was; it was so old and still and highly respectable. He descended
from the omnibus nervously and went into the office. A clerk handed him
a pen, and he registered his name in a clerkly hand, "A. Armstrong
Webb." He had decided to acknowledge his debt to his uncle and add a
cubit to his stature at the same time. The clerk wheeled the book round,
glanced indifferently at the name, and handed a key to a bell-boy. Webb,
conscious of a faint chill, followed the boy up-stairs. The room to
which he was conducted was an ordinary one overlooking the area. He had
been treated as any commonplace and unknown traveller would be. The
thought increased the chill; then he philosophically concluded that a
nobleman travelling incognito would be treated in the same way, and went
down-stairs to the dining-room. There he was somewhat surprised to find
that dinner was being served instead of luncheon. He had supposed that
dinner in a Newport hotel would be served at eight o'clock.

After dinner he went out to the veranda, sat himself on one of the
chairs by the railing, and smoked an expensive cigar. He was beginning
to feel strangely lonely. There seemed to be very few people in the
hotel, and he experienced his first pang of helplessness, of doubt. He
had supposed that the hotel would be full of great people. As he glanced
down the avenue, those big houses seemed like tombs, buried, themselves,
under a rank growth of foliage. And it was so wondrous quiet!

His cigar cheered him somewhat, and he sauntered back to the office and
entered into conversation with the clerk, a good-humored little
Englishman with cheeks like his own apples. The clerk knew at a glance
that the stranger was neither a "swell" nor a frequenter of Newport;
but he liked his manly appearance, and readily met his advances. To his
dismay, Webb learned that the "swells" no longer went to the hotels; or,
if obliged to do so for a short period, secluded themselves in their