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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

"Peter: a novel of which he is not the hero"

"
Morris's greeting to me was none the less hearty, although he had
left me but half an hour before.
"Late, as I expected, Major," he cried with out-stretched hand,
"and serves you right for not sitting in Peter's lap in the cab.
Somebody ought to sit on him once in a while. He's twenty years
younger already. Here, take this seat alongside of me where you
can keep him in order--they were at table when I entered. Waiter,
bring back that bottle--Just a light claret, Major--all we allow
ourselves."
As the evening wore away the charm of the room grew upon me.
Vistas hazy with tobacco smoke opened up; the ceiling lost in the
fog gave one the impression of out-of-doors--like a roof-garden at
night; a delusion made all the more real by the happy uproar. And
then the touches here and there by men whose life had been the
study of color and effects; the appointments of the table, the
massing of flowers relieving the white cloth; the placing of
shaded candles, so that only a rosy glow filtered through the
loom, softening the light on the happy faces--each scalp crowned
with chaplets of laurel tied with red ribbons: an enchantment of
color, form and light where but an hour before only the practical
and the commonplace had held sway.


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