Further Foolishness | Page 5

a little short-sighted, and very often a
one and a three look so alike that I can't tell them apart. I'm afraid--"
"Not at all," said the lady. "Good evening."
"You see," I added, "this room and my own being so alike, and mine
being 343 and this being 341, I walked in before I realised that instead
of walking into 343 I was walking into 341."
She bowed in silence, without speaking, and I felt that it was now the
part of exquisite tact to retire quietly without further explanation, or at
least with only a few murmured words about the possibility of
to-morrow being even colder than to-day. I did so, and the affair ended
with complete savoir faire on both sides.
But the Snoopopaths, Man and Woman, can't do this sort of thing, or, at
any rate, the snoopopathic writer won't let them. The opportunity is too
good to miss. As soon as The Man comes into The Woman's
room--before he knows who she is, for she has her back to him--he gets
into a condition dear to all snoopopathic readers.
His veins simply "surged." His brain beat against his temples in mad
pulsation. His breath "came and went in quick, short pants." (This last
might perhaps be done by one of the hotel bellboys, but otherwise it is
hard to imagine.)
And The Woman--"Noiseless as his step had been, she seemed to sense
his presence. A wave seemed to sweep over her --She turned and rose
fronting him full." This doesn't mean that he was full when she fronted
him. Her gown--but we know about that already. "It was a coward's
trick," she panted.
Now if The Man had had the kind of savoir faire that I have, he would
have said: "Oh, pardon me! I see this room is 341. My own room is 343,
and to me a one and a three often look so alike that I seem to have
walked into 341 while looking for 343." And he could have explained
in two words that he had no idea that she was in New York, was not
following her, and not proposing to interfere with her in any way. And
she would have explained also in two sentences why and how she came
to be there. But this wouldn't do. Instead of it, The Man and The
Woman go through the grand snoopopathic scene which is so intense
that it needs what is really a new kind of language to convey it.
"Helene," he croaked, reaching out his arms--his voice tensed with the
infinity of his desire.

"Back," she iced. And then, "Why have you come here?" she hoarsed.
"What business have you here?"
"None," he glooped, "none. I have no business." They stood sensing
one another.
"I thought you were in Philadelphia," she said--her gown clinging to
every fibre of her as she spoke.
"I was," he wheezed.
"And you left it?" she sharped, her voice tense.
"I left it," he said, his voice glumping as he spoke. "Need I tell you
why?" He had come nearer to her. She could hear his pants as he
moved.
"No, no," she gurgled. "You left it. It is enough. I can understand"--she
looked bravely up at him--"I can understand any man leaving it."
Then as he moved still nearer her, there was the sound of a sudden
swift step in the corridor. The door opened and there stood before them
The Other Man, the Husband of The Woman--Edward Dangerfield.
This, of course, is the grand snoopopathic climax, when the author gets
all three of them--The Man, The Woman, and The Woman's
Husband--in an hotel room at night. But notice what happens.
He stood in the opening of the doorway looking at them, a slight smile
upon his lips.
"Well?" he said. Then he entered the room and stood for a moment
quietly looking into The Man's face.
"So," he said, "it was you." He walked into the room and laid the light
coat that he had been carrying over his arm upon the table. He drew a
cigar-case from his waistcoat pocket.
"Try one of these Havanas," he said.
Observe the calm of it. This is what the snoopopath loves--no rage, no
blustering--calmness, cynicism. He walked over towards the
mantelpiece and laid his hat upon it. He set his boot upon the fender.
"It was cold this evening," he said. He walked over to the window and
gazed a moment into the dark.
"This is a nice hotel," he said. (This scene is what the author and the
reader love; they hate to let it go. They'd willingly keep the man
walking up and down for hours saying "Well!")
The Man raised his head! "Yes, it's a good hotel," he said. Then he let