That was it.  Surrounded by them, he was fascinated but not cheered.  They were all so smilingly, or disdainfully, or indifferently unconscious of the existence of the human thing of his class.  His aspect, his life, and his desires were as remote as those of prehistoric man.  His Broadway, his L railroad, his Delkoff—­what were they where did they come into the scheme of the Universe?  They silently gazed and lightly smiled or frowned through him as he stood.  He was probably not in the least aware that he rather loudly sighed.

“Yes,” he said, “they make me feel ’way off.  I’m not in it.  But she is a looker.  Get onto that dimple in her cheek.”

Mount Dunstan and Penzance spent the afternoon in doing their best for him.  He was well worth it.  Mr. Penzance was filled with delight, and saturated with the atmosphere of New York.

“I feel,” he said, softly polishing his eyeglasses and almost affectionately smiling, “I really feel as if I had been walking down Broadway or Fifth Avenue.  I believe that I might find my way to—­well, suppose we say Weber & Field’s,” and G. Selden shouted with glee.

Never before, in fact, had he felt his heart so warmed by spontaneous affection as it was by this elderly, somewhat bald and thin-faced clergyman of the Church of England.  This he had never seen before.  Without the trained subtlety to have explained to himself the finely sweet and simply gracious deeps of it, he was moved and uplifted.  He was glad he had “come across” it, he felt a vague regret at passing on his way, and leaving it behind.  He would have liked to feel that perhaps he might come back.  He would have liked to present him with a Delkoff, and teach him how to run it.  He had delighted in Mount Dunstan, and rejoiced in him, but he had rather fallen in love with Penzance.  Certain American doubts he had had of the solidity and permanency of England’s position and power were somewhat modified.  When fellows like these two stood at the first rank, little old England was a pretty safe proposition.

After they had given him tea among the scents and songs of the sunken garden outside the library window, they set him on his way.  The shadows were lengthening and the sunlight falling in deepening gold when they walked up the avenue and shook hands with him at the big entrance gates.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “you’ve treated me grand—­as fine as silk, and it won’t be like Little Willie to forget it.  When I go back to New York it’ll be all I can do to keep from getting the swell head and bragging about it.  I’ve enjoyed myself down to the ground, every minute.  I’m not the kind of fellow to be likely to be able to pay you back your kindness, but, hully gee! if I could I’d do it to beat the band.  Good-bye, gentlemen—­and thank you—­thank you.”

Across which one of their minds passed the thought that the sound of the hollow impact of a trotting horse’s hoofs on the road, which each that moment became conscious of hearing was the sound of the advancing foot of Fate?  It crossed no mind among the three.  There was no reason why it should.  And yet at that moment the meaning of the regular, stirring sound was a fateful thing.