It was very pleasant to be alone in the house, and to be the first-fruits of such great expectations.  The first man of the season is in such a different position from the last.  He is like the King of Bavaria alone in his royal theatre.  The ushers give him the best seat in the house, he hears the tuning of the instruments, the curtain is about to rise, and all for him.  It is a very cheerful desolation, for it has a future, and everything quivers with the expectation of life and gayety.  Whereas the last man is like one who stumbles out among the empty benches when the curtain has fallen and the play is done.  Nothing is so melancholy as the shabbiness of a watering-place at the end of the season, where is left only the echo of past gayety, the last guests are scurrying away like leaves before the cold, rising wind, the varnish has worn off, shutters are put up, booths are dismantled, the shows are packing up their tawdry ornaments, and the autumn leaves collect in the corners of the gaunt buildings.

Could this be the Cape May about which hung so many traditions of summer romance?  Where were those crowds of Southerners, with slaves and chariots, and the haughtiness of a caste civilization, and the belles from Baltimore and Philadelphia and Charleston and Richmond, whose smiles turned the heads of the last generation?  Had that gay society danced itself off into the sea, and left not even a phantom of itself behind?  As he sat upon the veranda, King could not rid himself of the impression that this must be a mocking dream, this appearance of emptiness and solitude.  Why, yes, he was certainly in a delusion, at least in a reverie.  The place was alive.  An omnibus drove to the door (though no sound of wheels was heard); the waiters rushed out, a fat man descended, a little girl was lifted down, a pretty woman jumped from the steps with that little extra bound on the ground which all women confessedly under forty always give when they alight from a vehicle, a large woman lowered herself cautiously out, with an anxious look, and a file of men stooped and emerged, poking their umbrellas and canes in each other’s backs.  Mr. King plainly saw the whole party hurry into the office and register their names, and saw the clerk repeatedly touch a bell and throw back his head and extend his hand to a servant.  Curious to see who the arrivals were, he went to the register.  No names were written there.  But there were other carriages at the door, there was a pile of trunks on the veranda, which he nearly stumbled over, although his foot struck nothing, and the chairs were full, and people were strolling up and down the piazza.  He noticed particularly one couple promenading—­a slender brunette, with a brilliant complexion; large dark eyes that made constant play—­could it be the belle of Macon?—­and a gentleman of thirty-five, in black frock-coat, unbuttoned, with a wide-brimmed soft hat-clothes not quite the latest style—­who had a good deal of manner, and