city is undeniably sooty. A groom with a sooty shirt bosom would not
reflect credit on Esther Lockwin.

"Magnificent woman!" he cries, as he changes his linen once more. He
thinks he would marry her if she were poor.

It is getting well toward the event. Would it be correct to go early?
Where would he stay? Would he annoy the bride? What time is it? Let
us see. Four-thirty! Yes, now to keep this linen white. How would it
do to put a silk handkerchief over it--this way? Where are those silk
handkerchiefs? Must have one! Must have one! Not a one! Where is
that bell?

He touches the bell. He awaits the boy, who comes, and goes for a
handkerchief.

He sits upon the side of the bed and listens to the bickerings of the
waiters in the hall of the dining-room below. Dinner is now to be
served.

He studies the lock-history of the door.

"Lots of people have broken in here," he muses.

He passes over the rules--well he knows them!

The electric lights on the street throw dim shadows on the gas-lit
wall--factories, depots, vessels, docks, saw-mills. The phantasmagoria
pleases Mr. Harpwood.