“Not at all,” said the lady.  “Good evening.”

“You see,” I added, “this room and my own being so alike, and mine being 343 and this being 341, I walked in before I realised that instead of walking into 343 I was walking into 341.”

She bowed in silence, without speaking, and I felt that it was now the part of exquisite tact to retire quietly without further explanation, or at least with only a few murmured words about the possibility of to-morrow being even colder than to-day.  I did so, and the affair ended with complete savoir faire on both sides.

But the Snoopopaths, Man and Woman, can’t do this sort of thing, or, at any rate, the snoopopathic writer won’t let them.  The opportunity is too good to miss.  As soon as The Man comes into The Woman’s room—­before he knows who she is, for she has her back to him—­he gets into a condition dear to all snoopopathic readers.

His veins simply “surged.”  His brain beat against his temples in mad pulsation.  His breath “came and went in quick, short pants.” (This last might perhaps be done by one of the hotel bellboys, but otherwise it is hard to imagine.)

And The Woman—­“Noiseless as his step had been, she seemed to sense his presence.  A wave seemed to sweep over her —­She turned and rose fronting him full.”  This doesn’t mean that he was full when she fronted him.  Her gown—­but we know about that already.  “It was a coward’s trick,” she panted.

Now if The Man had had the kind of savoir faire that I have, he would have said:  “Oh, pardon me!  I see this room is 341.  My own room is 343, and to me a one and a three often look so alike that I seem to have walked into 341 while looking for 343.”  And he could have explained in two words that he had no idea that she was in New York, was not following her, and not proposing to interfere with her in any way.  And she would have explained also in two sentences why and how she came to be there.  But this wouldn’t do.  Instead of it, The Man and The Woman go through the grand snoopopathic scene which is so intense that it needs what is really a new kind of language to convey it.

“Helene,” he croaked, reaching out his arms—­his voice tensed with the infinity of his desire.

“Back,” she iced.  And then, “Why have you come here?” she hoarsed.  “What business have you here?”

“None,” he glooped, “none.  I have no business.”  They stood sensing one another.

“I thought you were in Philadelphia,” she said—­her gown clinging to every fibre of her as she spoke.

“I was,” he wheezed.

“And you left it?” she sharped, her voice tense.

“I left it,” he said, his voice glumping as he spoke.  “Need I tell you why?” He had come nearer to her.  She could hear his pants as he moved.

“No, no,” she gurgled.  “You left it.  It is enough.  I can understand”—­she looked bravely up at him—­“I can understand any man leaving it.”