Once inside I began to suspect that my position was going to be more
than a bit dicky. I mean to say, it was not an establishment in our
sense of the word, being staffed, apparently, by two China persons who
performed the functions of cook, housemaids, footmen, butler, and
housekeeper. There was not even a billiard room.
During the ensuing hour, marked by the arrival of our luggage and the
unpacking of boxes, I meditated profoundly over the difficulties of my
situation. In a wilderness, beyond the confines of civilization, I
would undoubtedly be compelled to endure the hardships of the pioneer;
yet for the present I resolved to let no inkling of my dismay escape.
The evening meal over--dinner in but the barest technical sense--I sat
alone in my own room, meditating thus darkly. Nor was I at all cheered
by the voice of Cousin Egbert, who sang in his own room adjoining. I
had found this to be a habit of his, and his songs are always dolorous
to the last degree. Now, for example, while life seemed all too black
to me, he sang a favourite of his, the pathetic ballad of two small
children evidently begging in a business thoroughfare:
"Lone and weary through the streets we wander,
For we have no place to lay our head;
Not a friend is left on earth to shelter us,
For both our parents now are dead.
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