"Why, that's a pity!"

"Yes, I've no fancy for a cot-bed in the hotel parlor. But I don't quite
like to leave you here, after bringing this calamity upon you."

"O, don't mention that! I was the only one to blame. We shall get on
splendidly here."

Mr. Arbuton suffered a vague disappointment. At the bottom of his heart
was a formless hope that he might in some way be necessary to the
Ellisons in their adversity; or if not that, then that something might
entangle him further and compel his stay. But they seemed quite equal in
themselves to the situation; they were in far more comfortable quarters
than they could have hoped for, and plainly should want for nothing;
Fortune put on a smiling face, and bade him go free of them. He fancied
it a mocking smile, though, as he stood an instant silently weighing one
thing against another. The colonel was patiently waiting his motion;
Mrs. Ellison sat watching him from the sofa; Kitty moved about the room
with averted face,--a pretty domestic presence, a household priestess
ordering the temporary Penates. Mr. Arbuton opened his lips to say
farewell, but a god spoke through them,--inconsequently, as the gods for
the most part do, saying, "Besides, I suppose you've got all the rooms
here."

"O, as to that I don't know," answered the colonel, not recognizing the
language of inspiration, "let's ask." Kitty knocked a photograph-book
off the table, and Mrs. Ellison said, "Why, Kitty!" But nothing more was
spoken till the landlady came. She had another room, but doubted if it
would answer. It was in the attic, and was a back room, though it had a
pleasant outlook. Mr. Arbuton had no doubt that it would do very well