waiters exhibited in their eagerness a good imitation of unselfish
service.

It was very pleasant to be alone in the house, and to be the first-fruits
of such great expectations. The first man of the season is in such a
different position from the last. He is like the King of Bavaria alone
in his royal theatre. The ushers give him the best seat in the house, he
hears the tuning of the instruments, the curtain is about to rise, and
all for him. It is a very cheerful desolation, for it has a future, and
everything quivers with the expectation of life and gayety. Whereas the
last man is like one who stumbles out among the empty benches when the
curtain has fallen and the play is done. Nothing is so melancholy as the
shabbiness of a watering-place at the end of the season, where is left
only the echo of past gayety, the last guests are scurrying away like
leaves before the cold, rising wind, the varnish has worn off, shutters
are put up, booths are dismantled, the shows are packing up their tawdry
ornaments, and the autumn leaves collect in the corners of the gaunt
buildings.

Could this be the Cape May about which hung so many traditions of summer
romance? Where were those crowds of Southerners, with slaves and
chariots, and the haughtiness of a caste civilization, and the belles
from Baltimore and Philadelphia and Charleston and Richmond, whose smiles
turned the heads of the last generation? Had that gay society danced
itself off into the sea, and left not even a phantom of itself behind? As
he sat upon the veranda, King could not rid himself of the impression
that this must be a mocking dream, this appearance of emptiness and
solitude. Why, yes, he was certainly in a delusion, at least in a
reverie. The place was alive. An omnibus drove to the door (though no
sound of wheels was heard); the waiters rushed out, a fat man descended,