In fact, there was no hope of its
clearing up; the barometer pointed to rainy weather; mine hostess'
tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, and rubbing her
paws over her ears; and, on referring to the almanac, I found a
direful prediction stretching from the top of the page to the bottom
through the whole month, "expect--much--rain--about--this--time."
I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they would never creep
by. The very ticking of the clock became irksome. At length the
stillness of the house was interrupted by the ringing of a bell.
Shortly after, I heard the voice of a waiter at the bar: "The stout
gentleman in No. 13 wants his breakfast. Tea and bread and butter with
ham and eggs; the eggs not to be too much done."
In such a situation as mine, every incident is of importance.
Here was a subject of speculation presented to my mind, and ample
exercise for my imagination. I am prone to paint pictures to myself,
and on this occasion I had some materials to work upon. Had the guest
up-stairs been mentioned as Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson,
or Mr. Johnson, or merely as "the gentleman in No. 13," it would have
been a perfect blank to me. I should have thought nothing of it; but
"The stout gentleman!"--the very name had something in it of the
picturesque.
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