It came over him with an insistence that he, too, would
like to roam the world, and see strange places and old marble
palaces with steps descending into the blue sea water, and islands
with precipices and beaches and palm trees.
Almost awed at his own presumption he sat down and wrote to Miss
Fenacre.
It was a short note, formally addressed, begging her for a
position in the engine-room staff. He knew, he said, that the
quota was probably made up, and that he could not hope for an
important place. But if she would take him as a first-class
artificer he would be more than grateful, and ventured on the
little pleasantry that even if he had to be squeezed in as a
supernumerary he was confident he could save her his pay and keep
a good many times over.
He got an answer a couple of days later, addressed from a
fashionable New York hotel and granting him an interview. She
called him "dear Frank," and signed herself "ever yours," and said
that of course she would give him anything he wanted, only that
she would prefer to talk it over first.
He put on his best clothes and went to see her, being shown into a
large suite on the second floor, where he had to wait an hour in a
lofty anteroom with no other company but a statue of Pocahontas.
He was oppressed by the gorgeousness of the surroundings--by the
frowning pictures, the gilt furniture, the onyx-topped tables, the
vases, the mirrors, the ornate clocks. He was in a fever of
expectation, and could not fight down his growing timidity.
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