It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. Sated, he rolled off her body and retired to his quarters. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. We’d soon cool that temper of yours. "Kidnapped, and sent to France by one uncle, it was my lot to fall into the hands of another,—my father's own brother, the Marshal Gaucher de Chatillon; to whom, and to the Cardinal Dubois, I owed all my good fortune. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy.
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