nd 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 walked apart from
the young lady, bending towards her with an air of devotion. Mr. King
stood one side and watched the endless procession up and down, up and
down, the strollers, the mincers, the languid, the nervous steppers;
noted the eye-shots, the flashing or the languishing look that kills, and
never can be called to account for the mischief it does; but not a sound
did he hear of the repartee and the laughter. The place certainly was
thronged. The avenue in front was crowded with vehicles of all sorts;
there were groups strolling on the broad beach-children with their tiny
pails and shovels digging pits close to the advancing tid