This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1909. Excerpt: ... CHAPTER XVI THE SERVING MAN There was no sunlight in the garden-courtyard where the pink geraniums were, and the Pot of Basil urns, and the little fountain, forgotten these many hours, yet still industriously playing, rising and falling conscientiously and plashing on its dingy stone basin. But the morning light was there--the light that makes all things new. John Smith, standing at the window of the bare sitting-room with the Middle Victorian trimmings of The House With No Address, looking down at the fountain and the ferns and the trailing pink flowers. There were pink flowers from that garden in a Venice glass on the table, a white cloth, a chocolate service of Dresden china, pink too, with dainty panels of impossible shepherds and shepherdesses, coquetting amid incredible landscapes--silver--the pretty equipage of the first breakfast of a Stage Marquise. In the little kitchen, a kettle was spurting and spilling on the gas stove. The man by the window turned now and then to glance at a something curled up in the corner of a sofa--something covered by an Indian shawl that rose and fell to soft breathing. He glanced, but he did not look. Because he knew, as well as you or I do, that if you look at a sleeping person long enough you wake it. He had had adventures--a many--being one of those to whom adventures come as the commonplaces of life do to other men. But yesterday, and the night that followed yesterday, these surpassed all that had ever happened to him. As adventures were natural to him, so, it seemed, was romance natural to Sylvia. She attracted it, as the magnet attracts needles. And now the poor little magnet--bristling with steel points, undesired and unsought--slept--but metaphors are silly beasts anyhow, and why should a story-teller take any...
