Fiske and rouge-et-noir. There was an untraceable rumor in the
Hotel Lotus that Madame was a cosmopolite, and that she was pulling
with her slender white hands certain strings between the nations in
the favor of Russia. Being a citizeness of the world's smoothest
roads it was small wonder that she was quick to recognize in the
refined purlieus of the Hotel Lotus the most desirable spot in
America for a restful sojourn during the heat of mid-summer.
On the third day of Madame Beaumont's residence in the hotel a young
man entered and registered himself as a guest. His clothing--to
speak of his points in approved order--was quietly in the mode;
his features good and regular; his expression that of a poised and
sophisticated man of the world. He informed the clerk that he would
remain three or four days, inquired concerning the sailing of
European steamships, and sank into the blissful inanition of the
nonpareil hotel with the contented air of a traveller in his favorite
inn.
The young man--not to question the veracity of the register--was
Harold Farrington. He drifted into the exclusive and calm current of
life in the Lotus so tactfully and silently that not a ripple alarmed
his fellow-seekers after rest. He ate in the Lotus and of its
patronym, and was lulled into blissful peace with the other fortunate
mariners. In one day he acquired his table and his waiter and the
fear lest the panting chasers after repose that kept Broadway warm
should pounce upon and destroy this contiguous but covert haven.
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