Only one thing marred his success.  Little Carrie Pixley, daughter of one of the “trustees,” had promised to be present and sit in a box next the stage.  It was like him to be fond of the child, and he had promised to send a carriage for her.  Often during his address he glanced toward the box; but it remained empty.  When the affair was ended, he drove home with her father to inquire the reason.  They found the little girl, in all her finery, weeping on the bed.  Then he remembered he had forgotten to send the carriage; and that was like him, too.

For his Third House address Judge A. W. (Sandy) Baldwin and Theodore Winters presented him with a gold watch inscribed to “Governor Mark Twain.”  He was more in demand now than ever; no social occasion was regarded as complete without him.  His doings were related daily and his sayings repeated on the streets.  Most of these things have passed away now, but a few are still recalled with smiles.  Once, when conundrums were being asked at a party, he was urged to make one.

“Well,” he sand, “why am I like the Pacific Ocean?”

Several guesses were made, but none satisfied him.  Finally all gave it up.

“Tell us, Mark, why are you like the Pacific Ocean?”

“I don’t know,” he drawled.  “I was just asking for information.”

At another time, when a young man insisted on singing a song of eternal length, the chorus of which was, “I’m going home, I’m going home, I’m going home tomorrow,” Mark Twain put his head in the window and said, pleadingly: 

“For God’s sake go to-night.”

But he was also fond of quieter society.  Sometimes, after the turmoil of a legislative morning, he would drop in to Miss Keziah Clapp’s school and listen to the exercises, or would call on Colonel Curry—­“old Curry, old Abe Curry”—­and if the colonel happened to be away, he would talk with Mrs. Curry, a motherly soul (still alive at ninety-three, in 1910), and tell her of his Hannibal boyhood or his river and his mining adventures, and keep her laughing until the tears ran.

He was a great pedestrian in those days.  Sometimes he walked from Virginia to Carson, stopping at Colonel Curry’s as he came in for rest and refreshment.

“Mrs. Curry,” he said once, “I have seen tireder men than I am, and lazier men, but they were dead men.”  He liked the home feeling there —­the peace and motherly interest.  Deep down, he was lonely and homesick; he was always so away from his own kindred.

Clemens returned now to Virginia City, and, like all other men who ever met her, became briefly fascinated by the charms of Adah Isaacs Menken, who was playing Mazeppa at the Virginia Opera House.  All men—­kings, poets, priests, prize-fighters—­fell under Menken’s spell.  Dan de Quille and Mark Twain entered into a daily contest as to who could lavish the most fervid praise on her in the Enterprise.  The latter carried her his literary work to criticize.  He confesses this in one of his home letters, perhaps with a sort of pride.