THE Butternut Grand Hotel was large and white; with a hundred windows, all of the same size, equidistant, and in four parallel rows. Had any one of them been unfinished, like the window in Aladdin’s tower, it need not have so remained; with a few hours’ work any joiner could have evened it up with the rest. A huge verandah surrounded the structure, roofed above the second story; and up and down the painted floor of this verandah a score of pairs of young ladies promenaded. Young ladies they were called in the society columns of the summer Sunday papers; speaking colloquially, one might have called them girls. Vane’s black suit was dusty, and in his travel-stained condition it was embarrassing to be the object of young feminine eyes; but as most of them stopped their walk to observe his entrance, there was nothing for it but to cast his own eyes down, and walk modestly through the line. It was a worse gantlet than the Calais pier. Vane went to the office to ask for his room; but it was some minutes before the clerk, who was talking with another gentleman, could give him his attention. When he did so he scanned Vane rudely before replying, and at last, as he opened his lips to answer, two of the young ladies from the piazza rushed in to ask for their mail, and, pushing Vane slightly aside, engaged the clerk’s attention. “Now, Mr. Hitchcock, you don’t mean to tell me you have no letters for me?” said one. The other looked at Vane while she spoke, as, indeed, did the speaker.
When the clerk began sorting the heap of letters which had just come in the coach, Vane acquired the flattering conviction that the mail was but a pretext, and himself the cause.
“There are none, indeed, Miss Morse,” said the clerk; and the girls fluttered gaily out. “I’ll write you one myself, if you’ll wait,” added the clerk jocosely. But the only reply to this was a Parthian glance from Miss Morse, which embraced Vane in its orbit. The clerk looked after them with a smile, and then, after meditating a moment, turned to Vane.
“Now, what can I do for you, sir?”
“I believe I engaged a room.”
“What name?”
“Vane.”
“Three twelve,” said the clerk, and turned back to his first interlocutor, who had been standing silent in the meantime, chewing a toothpick and regarding the opposite wall.
Vane’s chamber was a long and narrow room shaped like a pigeon-hole in a desk. A ventilating window was above the door, and a single window opposite, uncurtained, looking out upon a long, monotonous slope of mountain, which was clothed shabbily in a wood of short firs. The sides and roof of the room were of coarse plaster; a red carpet was upon the floor. Some delay was caused by Vane’s ringing for a bath, and still further delay by the waitress in obtaining the information that he could not have one unless he gave notice the day before. While Vane was waiting for all this he heard the door of the next room open, and the distinctness of the feminine voices bore testimony to the thinness of the walls. There were seemingly two young ladies there, but their conversation was interrupted by a gong, which, as one of the voices informed him, was the gong for supper. A consequent scuffle took place, and this was only ended by the final bang of the door that announced the departure of his neighbors.
Vane followed their example, and entered a long dining-hall in which two rows of tables, eighteen in each row, were disposed transversely; there were eighteen seats at every table, many of which were already occupied. After waiting a minute at the door he was shown to a seat next a Jewish family and several young men—evidently a sort of omnibus table, to which the negro waiters, with a nice social discrimination, ushered solitary males. Possibly for this reason, they were not well served. The table was covered with little oval dishes of coarse stoneware containing dip-toast, fried potatoes, and slices of cold meat. Steaks and omelets were announced in a printed bill of fare, and tea and coffee. Vane was unable to interest himself in his companions, and watched the people coming in. Most of the elderly ladies and some of the young girls wore large solitaire diamonds, and bore down, as if under full sail, through the broad aisle, with elaborate assumption of indifference and social dignity. It was evident that, to many of them, the people who were seated at these tables represented the World. The men looked more respectable, but even more out of place; and the girls, of whom many were pretty, came tripping in by twos, with infinite variety of gait and action. Vane noticed that Miss Morse and her friend had changed their dresses. They did not look at him. Miss Morse’s friend had a novel in her hand which she read during the meal.
After supper Vane walked up and down the verandah. Most of the girls did the same, still in couples. Despite the cool mountain air, many of them wore low-throated muslin dresses. Vane’s quasi-acquaintance, Miss Morse, was not among them; but about nine in the evening a figure came out of a side-door in front of him, in a sort of summer evening ball dress, and stood a moment by the piazza railing, pensively looking at the stars. As Vane passed by he saw that it was Miss Morse, and he could not help wondering whether she expected him to speak to her. As he passed the windows of the large dining-hall brilliantly lighted with gas, he saw that they were dancing inside. A few instruments were in one corner, and perhaps half a dozen couples waltzing on the floor. Some young men were there in evening dress, but not enough to go round, and many of the girls were dancing with each other. Vane had to admit that most of them danced very gracefully and well. After a moment, Miss Morse came in. She had apparently some pretensions, for she sank into an arm-chair in one corner of the room, and refused to dance. There was a sort of master of ceremonies in the person of a sallow and thin but dapper young gentleman who had all the affable address of a popular lady’s salesman, and Vane saw him present several young men to Miss Morse. All this became at last somewhat tiresome, and, feeling lonely, Vane went to bed.
He had almost got to sleep when he was aroused by the voices of his feminine neighbors. “Well, I think he’s perfectly horrid,” said one. “No,” said another, “he ain’t much of an addition. I told father I must have two new ball dresses, because I was coming here for the society. I had to tease him for them for a month, and now, I declare, I might just as well have stayed in the city all summer. Come and undo this, will you, please?”
“Sh!” said the other voice, “how do you know there isn’t some one next door?” A silence followed, interrupted by bursts of stifled laughter.
“Well, I don’t care,” said the first voice. “There wasn’t any one there yesterday, anyhow. Did you see how he was dressed? Nothing but a common, rough suit.”
“Oh, don’t you like that? Why, I call that real distinguished.”
“Well, anyhow, I don’t see why he couldn’t get introduced. I call it simply rude, Englishman or no Englishman.” At this point the unfortunate stranger seemed finally disposed of, and Vane went to sleep.