once upon a time, by a chance of history, a small man was thrust into greatness of place.

moulded in putty for a niche, he tottered and crumbled on a pedestal.

this pedestalled weakling, small in his great place, prayed for support. he got it on conditions—rather shabby ones. he was to acknowledge himself frightened, his niche in life a mistake. he was to deny his old views of right, and compromise away right for a novel view of ancient wrong.

when time came that he should remove, he was willing to stay and be a dough image in a high place; but a grateful people of a grateful republic did not invite him.

at another time, a grateful people rather scornfully declined him a re-invitation to the old place, though he prayed it in suppliant guise.

but a grateful people did as much as could be expected; they built a great hotel at newport and named it by his name. it still lives, and its name is “the millard.”

what they call the odour of respectability that[127] hangs about an old institution is not always fragrance when that institution is a hotel. there, most people prefer the odour of new paint. so it was with our dramatis personæ. they chose the millard, not from sympathy with its name, but with its newness.

mr. waddy preferred going with granby and ambient, whom they had adopted, to abandoning these friends and accepting the invitation of his ambassador kinsman. so these three gentlemen inscribed themselves upon the books of the millard.

miss arabella budlong had just returned from her bath. she was in the hair and costume of la sonnambula in the bridge scene, and it was a little dangerous, her rush to the window to inspect the companions of mr. waddy. she might have been seen—in fact, she was seen, but not recognised, by peter skerrett, who had arrived that morning. he called gyas cutus and told him to look at venus anadyomene, drying herself in the sun.

once upon a time, by a chance of history, a small man was thrust into greatness of place.

moulded in putty for a niche, he tottered and crumbled on a pedestal.

this pedestalled weakling, small in his great place, prayed for support. he got it on conditions—rather shabby ones. he was to acknowledge himself frightened, his niche in life a mistake. he was to deny his old views of right, and compromise away right for a novel view of ancient wrong.

when time came that he should remove, he was willing to stay and be a dough image in a high place; but a grateful people of a grateful republic did not invite him.

at another time, a grateful people rather scornfully declined him a re-invitation to the old place, though he prayed it in suppliant guise.

but a grateful people did as much as could be expected; they built a great hotel at newport and named it by his name. it still lives, and its name is “the millard.”

what they call the odour of respectability that[127] hangs about an old institution is not always fragrance when that institution is a hotel. there, most people prefer the odour of new paint. so it was with our dramatis personæ. they chose the millard, not from sympathy with its name, but with its newness.

mr. waddy preferred going with granby and ambient, whom they had adopted, to abandoning these friends and accepting the invitation of his ambassador kinsman. so these three gentlemen inscribed themselves upon the books of the millard.

miss arabella budlong had just returned from her bath. she was in the hair and costume of la sonnambula in the bridge scene, and it was a little dangerous, her rush to the window to inspect the companions of mr. waddy. she might have been seen—in fact, she was seen, but not recognised, by peter skerrett, who had arrived that morning. he called gyas cutus and told him to look at venus anadyomene, drying herself in the sun.

“anna who?” asked gyas. “that’s belle bud. she’s always drying at this hour, and i believe doesn’t care who knows it. i say, peter, who are those chaps just come in? you know everybody before he is born. a very neat lot they are.”

“that brown one with the cheroot is ira waddy,” replied peter, “the partner of the great east indian[128] banker, jimsitchy jibbybohoy. the big man is the grand duke constantine, come over to study our institutions, republican and peculiar, with a view to the emancipation of serfs. number three is the eldest hope of the pope.”

“gaaz!” said gyas, with indescribable intonation. “the pope don’t have eldest sons.”

“i would be willing to have him the old gentleman’s youngest to please you,” replied peter, “but historic truth is a grave thing. apropos of boots and kicking, i significantly advise you not to call that young lady belle bud any more.”

misses julia wilkes and milly center were in the millard parlour with cloanthus fortisque and billy dulger. they saw the stranger gentlemen arrive, and milly felt her volage little heart expand toward ambient, that rosebud of albion. she had a lively imagination for flirtations and immediately built an ideal vista with a finale of a kneeling scene, ambient, in tears, offering his heart and a dukedom. she was not quite decided whether to raise him from his entrancement by a tap of fan, as wand, or to leave him in that comical position and call in a friend to witness her disdained triumph.

“go, mr. dulger,” said milly, with the despotism of a miss in her position, “and find out who they are—particularly that handsome young man in the curious coat, lovely complexion, and mutton-chops. he looks so sweet.”

poor dulger, compelled to prepare the way for a possible rival, went off savagely.

“i’ll make her pay for all this sometime,” he murmured, with clenched fists.

dulger was fast getting desperate. he had been with this young fair one a centripetal dangler or gyroscope for years. milly had taken his bouquets all her winters, without regard to expense. but other bouquets she had likewise taken, to the dismay of his faithful heart. when cleverer men, or bigger men, or men with more regular features or less sporadic moustache, came, yielding to miss milly’s seducing attentions,—and she was not chary of them,—poor dulger sat in the background, looking at his tightish new boots, and bit his thumb at these cleverer, bigger, handsomer. he could not understand the world-wide discursiveness of the clever men, nor in truth, did milly, but she had tact enough to see when her locutor thought he had said a witty thing, and then she could give a pretty laugh; or when it was a poetical, sentimental thing, she could look down and softly sigh. a man must have flattery for his vanity as much as sugar for his coffee, and milly was very liberal of that sweet condiment. her charm lasted with the clever men days, weeks, months, according to their necessities for unintelligent flattering sympathy and the frequency of their interviews.

billy dulger had seen so many generations of such[130] lovers come and go, more or less voluntarily, that he began to feel a pre-emptive, prescriptive, or squatter sovereign right to the premises; for there were premises, as well as a person—a house where one might willingly hang his hat. miss milly was an orphan and had a house—nay, many houses—of her own. her lover was proceeding in the established manner of courtship by regular approaches and steady siege. it generally succeeds, this method, and is, after all, easier to the dangling man of no genius and safer than the bold assault of a hardy forlorn hope. so many campaigns—such constant cannonade of bouquets with great occasional bombardment of flower-baskets—missives proposing truce—shams of raising the siege—showers of congreve rockets in the form of cornucopias of bonbons—parleys of no actual consequence effected by sympathising allies—cautious spying with lorgnette, followed by assault upon opera box—watchful pouncings when the garrison sallies forth for stores—patience, pertinacity, and final success: this was mr. dulger’s game. it was, however, no sport to him. it cannot be sweet for a man to be forever in the presence of a woman he loves or wants, he playing the triangle while a gran’ maestro is leading at the apex of the orchestra. he cannot enjoy hearing her applaud another man for saying things he cannot possibly think of and does not quite understand. billy, therefore, was not happy in his courtship. he knew his love was a[131] flirt, and not particularly charming, except that she made a business of being so. but it had become with him a vice to love her, if such is love. should he ever succeed, after his ages of suspensory dangling, he will not be brilliantly happy. this is experience which he will remember, and though a well-enough intentioned man, he will necessarily avenge with marital severities his ante-nuptial pains.