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I have; it is like a good many other foreign towns. I am melancholy. I _can't_ dismiss that miserable luggage from my mind. To be alone in a foreign land, without so much as a clean sock, is a distressing position for a sensitive person. If I could only succeed in seeing a humorous element in it, it would be _something_--but I can't. It is too forlorn to be at all funny. And there is still an hour and a half to get through before dinner! I have dined--in a small room, with a stove, a carved buffet, and a portrait of the King of the BELGIANS; but my spirits are still low. German Waiter dubious about me; reserving his opinion for the present. He comes in with a touch of new deference in his manner. "Please, a man from de shdation for you." I go out--to find the sympathetic Porter. My baggage has arrived? It has; it is at the Douane, waiting for me. I am saved! I tell the Waiter, without elation, but with what, I trust, is a calm dignity--the dignity of a man who has been misunderstood, but would scorn to resent it. _At the Station._--I have accompanied the Porter to the Terminus, such a pleasant helpful fellow, so intelligent! The Ostend streets much less dull at night. Feel relieved, in charity with all the world, now that my prodigal portmanteau is safely reclaimed. Porter takes me into a large luggage-room. Don't see my things just at first. "Your baggage--_ere!_" says the Porter, proudly, and points out a little drab valise with shiny black leather covers and brass studs--the kind of thing a man goes a journey with in a French Melodrama! He is quite hurt when I repudiate it indignantly; he tries to convince me that it is mine--the fool! There is no other baggage of any sort, and mine can't possibly arrive now before to-morrow afternoon, if then. Nothing for it but to go back, luggageless, to the Hotel--and face that confounded Waiter. Walk about the streets. Somehow I don't feel quite up to going back to the Hotel just yet. The shops, which are small and rather dimly lighted, depress me. There is no theatre, nor _cafe chantant_ open apparently. If there were, I haven't the heart for them to-night. Hear music from a small _estaminet_ in a back street; female voice, with fine Cockney accent, is singing "_Oh, dem Golden Slippers!_" Wonder where _my_ slippers are! _In my Bedroom._--I have had to come back at last, and get it over with the Waiter. If he felt _any_ surprise, I think it was to see me back at all. I
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