EUGENE PICKERING
by Henry James


CHAPTER I.


It was at Homburg, several years ago, before the gaming had been
suppressed. The evening was very warm, and all the world was gathered on
the terrace of the Kursaal and the esplanade below it to listen to the
excellent orchestra; or half the world, rather, for the crowd was equally
dense in the gaming-rooms around the tables. Everywhere the crowd was
great. The night was perfect, the season was at its height, the open
windows of the Kursaal sent long shafts of unnatural light into the dusky
woods, and now and then, in the intervals of the music, one might almost
hear the clink of the napoleons and the metallic call of the croupiers
rise above the watching silence of the saloons. I had been strolling
with a friend, and we at last prepared to sit down. Chairs, however,
were scarce. I had captured one, but it seemed no easy matter to find a
mate for it. I was on the point of giving up in despair, and proposing
an adjournment to the silken ottomans of the Kursaal, when I observed a
young man lounging back on one of the objects of my quest, with his feet
supported on the rounds of another. This was more than his share of
luxury, and I promptly approached him. He evidently belonged to the race
which has the credit of knowing best, at home and abroad, how to make
itself comfortable; but something in his appearance suggested that his
present attitude was the result of inadvertence rather than of egotism.
He was staring at the conductor of the orchestra and listening intently
to the music. His hands were locked round his long legs, and his mouth
was half open, with rather a foolish air. "There are so few chairs," I