little fads.  He had risen in the night, and opening the door connecting the kitchen and dining-room, that he might have sufficient scope, he had practised the remarkable gait of the New York youth of fashion:  that slight forward inclination of the shoulders, that slighter crab-like angle of the body, that ponderous thoughtful tread:  the only difference from the walk of the “tough” being in the length of the step.  One hand was in a pocket, the other absently manipulated a stick.  He had also witnessed the hand-shake, and of his proficiency in this accomplishment he felt assured.

On the third day of July, one hour after the law had yielded up its temporary foundling, he ordered an elaborate outfit from the most fashionable tailor in New York.  This order and others drilled a large hole in his first quarter’s income, but he regarded that as a trifling detail.  His mother and sister were meanwhile selling the homely necessities of their flat at auction, as the first step to a year abroad.  They wondered at Andrew’s desire to go to Newport, but had heard that it was a pretty place with a good bathing-beach, and much visited by tourists.  They spent the last night together in a hotel; and Mrs. Webb, in spite of a faint protest from Andrew, ordered beer and crackers and cheese.  They had eaten this little supper for many years, and the women, who were very tearful, insisted that this last evening together must be as much like the dear old evenings as possible.  It was a sad meal.

V

It was a profoundly hot August day when Andrew left the steamboat and actually stood upon Newport soil.  More properly, he stood upon a plank wharf, and was not impressed with the dock.  But as the omnibus rolled through the town his heart began to swell, his rather dull eyes to glow.  The hour was two, and the city asleep under its ivy and flowers.  After New York, it seemed deliciously quiet, and old, and aristocratic.  The pounding of the horses’ hoofs, the voices of the people in the omnibus, were desecrating.  He had glimpses of long avenues, dark, green, dim; a flash of villa top or imposing gateway behind the stately trees.  He felt that he was in paradise.

He was in a mood to admire the hotel, plain and unpretending structure as it was; it was so old and still and highly respectable.  He descended from the omnibus nervously and went into the office.  A clerk handed him a pen, and he registered his name in a clerkly hand, “A.  Armstrong Webb.”  He had decided to acknowledge his debt to his uncle and add a cubit to his stature at the same time.  The clerk wheeled the book round, glanced indifferently at the name, and handed a key to a bell-boy.  Webb, conscious of a faint chill, followed the boy up-stairs.  The room to which he was conducted was an ordinary one overlooking the area.  He had been treated as any commonplace and unknown traveller would be.  The thought increased the chill; then he philosophically concluded that a nobleman travelling incognito would be treated in the same way, and went down-stairs to the dining-room.  There he was somewhat surprised to find that dinner was being served instead of luncheon.  He had supposed that dinner in a Newport hotel would be served at eight o’clock.