The Disagreeable Woman

This could not be gainsaid, for the learned German certainly tipped the scales at over two hundred pounds. There was a strong suspicion that he imbibed copious potations of the liquid so dear to his countrymen, though he never drank it at table.

"The poor man is jealous," continued Mrs. Wyman, making the remark in a low tone for my private hearing. "He thinks we won't notice him after the Count comes."

This might be true, for Prof. Poppendorf was our star boarder. He was not supposed to be rich, but his title of Professor and his ancient intimacy with Bismarck, gave him a prestige among us all. When he first came Mrs. Wyman tried her blandishments upon him, but with indifferent success. Not that the grizzled veteran was too old for the tender passion, as we were soon to learn, but because he did not appreciate the coquettish ways of the widow, whom he considered of too light calibre for his taste.

"Don't you think the Professor very homely?" asked Mrs. Wyman, in a confidential whisper.

"He certainly is not handsome," I answered. "Neither is Bismarck."

"True, but he is a great man."

"We should respect him on account of his learning—probably much more so than the Count whom we are expecting."

"That may be. We don't expect noblemen to be learned," said the widow, disdainfully.

Immediately after breakfast she began to sound Mrs. Gray about the Count.

"When did he apply for board?" she asked.

"Yesterday afternoon about four o'clock."

"Had he heard of you? What led him here?"

"I think he saw the sign I had out."

"I should have supposed he would prefer a hotel."

"He's staying at a hotel now."

"Did he say at what hotel? Was it the Fifth Avenue?"

"He did not say. He will move here early this afternoon."

"And what room will he have?"

"The back room on the third floor—the one Mr. Bates had."

"I should hardly think that room would satisfy a nobleman."

"Why not? Is it not clean and neat?"

"Undoubtedly, dear Mrs. Gray, but you must admit that it is not stylish, and it is small."

"It is of the same size as the Professor's."

"Ah, the Professor! He is not a man of elegant tastes. I once looked into his room. It smells so strong of tobacco, I could not stay in there ten minutes without feeling sick."

"I think the Count smokes."

"Perhaps he does, but he wouldn't smoke a dirty clay pipe. I can imagine him with a dainty cigarette between his closed lips. But, Mrs. Gray, I am going to ask you a great favor."

"What is it?"

"Let me sit beside the Count. I wish to make his acquaintance. He will be reserved and silent with most of the boarders. I will try to make him feel at home."

"I thought you wished to sit beside Dr. Fenwick."

"So I did, but he and I are friends, and he won't mind my changing my seat."

When I came to supper that evening I was not wholly surprised to find myself removed to the opposite side of the table, but this I did not regret when I found that I was now next neighbor to the Disagreeable Woman.

In my old seat there was a slender young man of middle height, with dark eyes and hair. Mrs. Wyman had already established herself in confidential relations with him, and was conversing with him in a low tone.

"I suppose that is the Count," I remarked.

"At any rate he calls himself so. He has deprived you of your seat."

"Not only that but Mrs. Wyman has transferred her attentions to him."

"Doubtless to your regret?"

"Well, I don't know."

"She is scarcely off with the old love before she is on with the new," quoted Miss Blagden, with an approach to a smile.

"Perhaps you will console me," I ventured to suggest.

"I can't compete with Mrs. Wyman in her special line."

"I quite believe that," I said, smiling.

After supper the widow fluttered up to me.

"The Count is charming," she said, with enthusiasm. "He has a large estate in the South of Italy. He has come here to see the country and get acquainted with the people, and he may write a book."

"He doesn't seem overstocked with brains," observed the Disagreeable Woman. But Mrs. Wyman had fluttered away and did not hear her.

CHAPTER VII.

MACY'S

One day I dropped in at Macy's. I wished to make some trifling purchase. Possibly I could have bought to equal advantage elsewhere, but I was curious to see this great emporium. Years before, I had heard of it in my country home, and even then I knew just where it was located, at the corner of Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue.

Curious as I had been about the place, I had actually spent three months in New York and had not visited it. It was something of a shock to me when I first learned there was no Macy, that the original proprietor had vanished from the stage and left his famous shop in charge of men of alien race and name. Macy had become nominis umbra—the shadow of a name. Yet the name had been wisely retained. Under no other name could the great store have retained its ancient and well-earned popularity.

I made my purchase—it was trifling and did not materially swell the day's receipts—and began to walk slowly about the store, taking a leisurely survey of the infinite variety of goods which it offered to the prospective purchaser.

As I was making my leisurely round, all at once I heard my name called in a low but distinct tone.