"To remember Monsieur Robert Russ Mellin -- he promise to come to tea Hotel Magnifique, Roma, at five o'clock Thursday."
So read the awkwardly-worded calling-card he pulled from his pocket -- the card that brought him here, to this chandelier-brightened room where he looked around with the pleasurable joy of recognition -- with the knowledge that here, here, was where he belonged: among the gentle, the polished, the refined . . . and the beautiful.
Europe had been his goal so long -- and his hopes for pleasure grew high when he actually neared its shining horizon. But disappointment was there to meet him, during the first stages of his journey. London, his first stopping-place, gave him a few dreadful days. He knew nobody, and had not understood how heavily sheer loneliness -- something he never felt before -- would weigh down his spirits.
But on his way to Paris, something happened. It was as though a light had been turned on: and now glowing promise seemed to fill his entire life . . .
