certain unfamiliar features about this place. The wall-paper, for
instance, which at first glance he had taken for the work of some
cheap decorator, turned out to be tapestry, as he proved by
extending a shaky hand. The low ceiling, the little windows with
wooden blinds, the furniture itself, were all out of keeping with
hotel usages. He discovered by rolling his head that there was a
mahogany dresser over by the door and a padded couch covered with
chintz. There were folding brass clothes-hooks on the wall,
moreover, and an electric fan, while a narrow door gave him a
glimpse of a tiny, white-enamelled bath-room.

He took in these details laboriously, deciding finally that he was
too intoxicated to see aright, for, while the place was quite
unlike an ordinary hotel room, neither did it resemble any
steamship stateroom he had ever seen; it was more like a lady's
boudoir. To be sure, he felt a sickening surge and roll now and
then, but at other times the whole room made a complete
revolution, which was manifestly contrary to the law of
gravitation and therefore not to be trusted as evidence. There
were plenty of reasons, moreover, why this could not be a ship.
The mere supposition was absurd. No, this must be a room in some
up-town club, or perhaps a bachelor hotel. Kirk had many friends
with quarters decorated to suit their own peculiar fancies, and he
decided that in all probability one of these had met him on the
street and taken him home for safe-keeping. He had barely settled
this in his mind when the door opened for a second time and a man
in uniform entered.

"The steward said you wanted me," he began.