Belknap-Jackson knew himself to be a hero. He was elaborately cool. He
smiled tolerantly at intervals and undoubtedly applauded with the
least hint of languid proprietorship in his manner. He was heard to
speak of the artist by his first name. The Klondike woman and many of
her Bohemian set were prominently among those present and sustained
glances of pitying triumph from those members of the North Side set so
soon to be distinguished above her.
The morrow dawned auspiciously, very cloudy with smartish drives of
wind and rain. Confined to the dingy squalor of his hotel, how gladly
would the artist, it was felt, seek the refined cheer of one of our
best homes where he would be enlivened by an hour or so of contact
with our most cultivated people. Belknap-Jackson telephoned me with
increasing frequency as the hour drew near, nervously seeming to dread
that I would have overlooked some detail of his refined refreshments,
or that I would not have them at his house on time. He telephoned
often to the Honourable George to be assured that the carriage with
its escort would be prompt. He telephoned repeatedly to the driver
chap, to impress upon him the importance of his mission.
His guests began to arrive even before I had decked his sideboard with
what was, I have no hesitation in declaring, the most superbly dainty
buffet collation that Red Gap had ever beheld.
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