shadowy edges of heavy curtains framed
the obscurity; where the paint had blistered and peeled from the iron
railings, and the marble pillars of the portico glimmered, scarred by
frosts of winters long forgotten.

"Cheerful monument," repeated Fleetwood with a sarcastic nod. Then
the door was opened by a very old man wearing the black "swallow-tail"
clothes and choker of an old-time butler, spotless, quite immaculate,
but cut after a fashion no young man remembers.

"Good evening," said Fleetwood, entering, followed on tiptoe by Plank.

"Good evening, sir." ... A pause; and in the unsteady voice of age: "Mr.
Fleetwood, sir. ... Mr.--." A bow, and the dim eyes peering up at Plank,
who stood fumbling for his card-case.

Fleetwood dropped both cards on the salver unsteadily extended. The
butler ushered them into a dim room on the right.

"How is Mr. Siward?" asked Fleetwood, pausing on the threshold and
dropping his voice.

The old man hesitated, looking down, then still looking away from
Fleetwood: "Bravely, sir, bravely, Mr. Fleetwood."

"The Siwards were always that," said the young man gently.

"Yes, sir. ... Thank you. Mr. Stephen--Mr. Siward," he corrected,
quaintly, "is indisposed, sir. It was a--a great shock to us all, sir!"
He bowed and turned away, holding his salver stiffly; and they heard him
muttering under his breath, "Bravely, sir, bravely. A--a great shock,
sir! ... Thank you."

Fleetwood turned to Plank, who stood silent, staring through the fading
light at the faded household gods of the house of Siward. The dim light
touched the prisms of a crystal chandelier dulled by age, and edged the
carved foliations of the marble mantel, above which loomed a tarnished
mirror reflecting darkness. Fleetwood rose, drew a window-shade higher,
and nodded toward several pictures; and Plank moved slowly from one to
another, peering up at the dead Siwards in their crackled varnish.

"This is the real thing," observed Fleetwood cynically, "all this Fourth
Avenue antique business; dingy, cumbersome, depressing. Good God! I see
myself standing it. ... Look at that old grinny-bags in a pig-tail over
there! To the cellar for his, if this were my house. ... We've got some,
too, in several rooms, and I never go into 'em. They're like a scene
in a bum play, or like one of those Washington Square rat-holes, where
artists eat Welsh-rabbits with dirty fingers. Ugh!"

"I like it," said Plank, under his breath.

Fleetwoo