WHITEWASH
But he was not gay and happy as are the voyageurs, and then, besides, he had no sample-trunk.
Gustave chucked Hortense under her dimpled chin with a superior air. "And dost thou not know, grosse bête, that he is agent for automobiles?—in a sample-trunk!—Violà! that was droll!"
"Tiens!" cried Hortense, "there is the patronesse who rings!" and she flew to the summons of Madame Guisard, formerly la belle Nivernaise, now grown fat beyond belief, red-faced and choleric.
The "monsieur du quatorze" tramped on up-stairs, unlocked his door, entered, and slipped the bolt. Then he threw his soft hat upon the bed, slipped angrily out of his overcoat, flung himself upon the frowzy satin rocker, and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. His face was white and pinched, and his eyes discolored and miserable, for the "gentleman of travel with the habits extraordinary" had received bad news. In his hand he clutched
