om
which the darkness now seemed to be slowly welling up and obliterating
the landscape, and then, taking a book from his valise, settled himself
in the easy-chair by the fire. He was in no hurry to join the party
below, whom he had duly recognized and greeted as he passed through.
They or their prototypes were familiar friends. There was the recently
created baronet, whose "bloody hand" had apparently wiped out the
stains of his earlier Radicalism, and whose former provincial
self-righteousness had been supplanted by an equally provincial
skepticism; there was his wife, who through all the difficulties of
her changed position had kept the stalwart virtues of the Scotch
bourgeoisie, and was--"decent"; there were the two native lairds that
reminded him of "parts of speech," one being distinctly alluded to as
a definite article, and the other being "of" something, and apparently
governed always by that possessive case. There were two or three
"workers"--men of power and ability in their several vocations; indeed,
there was the general over-proportion of intellect, characteristic of
such Scotch gatherings, and often in excess of minor social qualities.
There was the usual foreigner, with Latin quickness, eagerness,
and misapprehending adaptability. And there was the solitary
Englishman--perhaps less generously equipped than the others--whom
everybody differed from, ridiculed, and then looked up to and imitated.
There were the half-dozen smartly frocked women, who, far from being
the females of the foregoing species, were quite indistinctive, with
the single exception of an American wife, who was infinitely more Scotch
than her Scotch husband.

Suddenly he became aware of a faint rustling at his door, and what
seemed to be a slight tap on the panel. He rose and opened it--the long
passage was dark and apparently empty, but he fancied he could detect
the quick swish of a skirt in the distance. As he re-entered his room,
his eye fell for the first time on a rose whose stalk was thrust through
the keyhole of his door. The consul smiled at this amiable solution of a
mystery. It was undoubtedly the playful mischievousness of the vivacious
MacSpadden. He placed it in water--intending to wear it in his coat at
dinner as a gentle recognition of the fair donor's courtesy.

Night had thickened suddenly as from a passing cloud. He lit the two
candles on his dressing-table, gave a glance into the now scarcely
distinguishable abyss be