The young fellow settled himself in his seat and looked about him
--at the smoke-stained ceiling, the old portraits and quaint
fittings and furniture--more particularly at the men. He would
have liked to talk to Ruth's father a little longer, but he felt
dazed and ill at ease--out of his element, somehow--although he
remembered the same kind of people at his father's house, except
that they wore different clothes.
But Peter did not leave him long in meditation. There were other
surprises for him upstairs, in the small dining-room opening out
of the library, where a long table was spread with eatables and
drinkables--salads, baby sausages, escaloped oysters, devilled
crabs and other dishes dear to old and new members. Here men were
met standing in groups, their plates in their hands, or seated at
the smaller tables, when a siphon and a beer bottle, or a mug of
Bass would be added to their comfort.
It was there the Scribe met him for the second time, my first
being the Morris dinner, when he sat within speaking distance.
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