in his circumstance and provision which he was apt to feel when he had
taken all the possible pains, even though the result was not perfect.
But now, he had real French bread, as good as he could have got in New
York, and the coffee was clear and bright. A growth of crisp green
watercress embowered a juicy steak, and in its shade, as it were, lay
two long slices of bacon, not stupidly broiled to a crisp, but
delicately pink, and exemplarily lean. Gaites had already had a
cantaloupe, whose spicy fragrance lingered in the air and mingled with
the robuster odors of the coffee, the steak, and the bacon.

He owned to being a fuss, but he contended that he was a cheerful fuss,
and when things went reasonably well with him, he was so. They were
going well with him now, not only in the small but in the large way. He
was sitting there before that capital breakfast in less than half an
hour after leaving the sleeping-car, where he had passed a very good
night, and he was setting out on his vacation, after very successful
work in the June term of court. He was in prime health; he had a good
conscience in leaving no interests behind him that could suffer in his
absence; and the smile that he bent upon the Italian waiter as he
retired, after putting down the breakfast, had some elements of a
benediction.

There was a good deal of Gaites's smile, when it was all on: he had a
generous mouth, full of handsome teeth, very white and even, which all
showed in his smile. His whole face took part in the smile, and it was a
charming face, long and rather quaintly narrow, of an amiable
aquilinity, and clean-shaven. His figure, tall and thin, comported well
with his style of visage, and at a given moment, when he suddenly rose
and leaned from the window, eagerly following something outside with his
eye, he had an alert movement that was very pleasant.