less than precipitate. It did
not now occur to her lover that she might wish to avoid her husband; as
far as he was concerned, she had no husband. He only appreciated his
own disappointment, and stood chafing before the stupid herd that
blocked his way to the street.

In this mood he cared not at all to discuss the events of the evening
with his companion; but Cardington was full of caustic comment.

"It was a great occasion," he mused. "We have seen what we came out to
see, and what more have we a right to demand? The dear people rampant,
the respected mayor quiescent, but biding his time, Cobbens couchant
but fanged, the President raised to a sublime apotheosis. It is always
a pleasure--is it not?--to witness transcendent ability, even if it be
in the line of practical politics. The perfection of each thing is
worth observing. These local politicians are fools compared with the
President, mere blundering tyros in the hands of a master of the
craft." His eyes began to gleam with merriment. "And, by the way,
that was a noble effort of Mr. Cobbens, 'apples of gold in pitchers of
silver.'"

His soliloquy lasted unbroken until they reached the street. To his
companion there was now no inspiration in the moonlight, no sweetness
in the unusual mildness of the air. His restless eyes searched in vain
the long line of carriages, but Felicity was nowhere to be seen. He
caught sight of the bishop driving off alone, and Cardington noticed
the direction of his glance.

"Ah," he said, "the bishop is doubtless about to betake himself to the
final reception to the President at the Warwick Club. Which reminds me
that the Bradford House is only a short walk from here."

CHAPTER XV

"I PLUCKED THE ROSE, IMPATIENT OF DELAY"

The Bradford House was a famous hostelry, and had long been deservedly
popular for its cuisine. It was a pleasure to sit in the long, low
cafe, to observe the rafters of natural wood, the antique fireplace,
and the mural paintings illustrating scenes from Colonial history: the
landing at Plymouth Rock, the death of Miantonomoh, the Boston Tea
Party. Still more pleasant it was, while the colonists attacked the
Pequods on the wall, to attack a lobster salad or a welsh rabbit on the
table, and to reflect that the main business of men _fruges consumere
nati_ was no longer to fight Indians.

Some such comforting reflection seemed to be mirrored in the genial
countenance of Professor Littlefor