with their wives--there were eight or ten
dumpy, dowdy, smiling little wives--were content with the _table
d'hote_. Indeed, the popularity of the _table d'hote_ sifted the simple,
scholarly professors of Gottingen, Freiburg, or Geneva from the
representatives of the larger and more sophisticated social world,
leaving the latter to eat in the restaurant, _a la carte_.

In this way Chip came to observe a man of some distinction who took his
meals at a small table alone and kept to himself. He was a man who would
have been noticeable anywhere, if it were for no more than the dignified
gravity of his manner and the correctness of his dress. Not only did he
wear what was impeccably the right thing for the right occasion, but his
movements were of the sedate precision that never displaces a button. As
straight and slim and erect as a guardsman, he was nevertheless stamped
all over as a civilian. From the lines in his gray, clean-shaven face of
regular profile, and the silvery touches in his hair, Chip judged him to
be fifty years old. He puzzled the analyst of nationalities--though, as
Chip put it to himself, it was clear he must belong to one of the
peoples who were chic. He was, therefore, either English or French or
Russian or Austrian or American. There was a bare chance of his being a
Dane or a Swede. When he spoke to a waiter or a passing acquaintance,
it was in so low a tone that Walker couldn't detect the language he
used. All one could affirm from distant and superficial observation was
that he was Somebody--Somebody of position, experience, and
judgment--Somebody to respect.

That, perhaps, was the secret of Walker's curiosity--that he respected
him. He would have liked to talk to him--not precisely to ask his
advice, but to lay before him some of the difficulties that were
inchoate in his soul. He had an idea that this man with the grave,
suffering face--yes, there was suffering in his face, as one could see
on closer inspection!--would understand them.

He came to the conclusion that he was a Russian, though he had an early
opportunity to find out. As he stood one day by the concierge's desk the
stranger entered, paused, spoke a few words inaudible to Walker, and
passed on. It was a simple matter to ask his name of the one man who
knew every name in the hotel, and he was on the point of doing so. He
had already begun: "Voulez vous bien me dire--?" when he stopped. On
the whole he preferred his own speculations.