The President | Page 2

a mood prodigiously dire.
The room being exhaustively searched, Mr. Pickwick came and sat by
Richard, and with yelp and howl, and at intervals a little epileptic bark,
proceeded to disparage all manners and septs of rats, and spake
slightingly of all such vermin deer. Having freed his mind on the
important subject of rats, Mr. Pickwick returned to silence and his
cushion and curled up.
Matzai, the Japanese valet, brought in the breakfast--steak, potatoes,
eggs, toast, marmalade, and coffee. The deft Matzai placed the tray on
the mahogany at Richard's elbow. Richard did not like a multiplicity of
personal attendants. Of the score of souls within the walls of that house,
Richard would meet only Mr. Gwynn and Matzai. This was as the
wisdom of Solomon, since neglect is born of numbers.
Mr. Lorimer Gwynn was a personage--clean and tall and slim and
solemn and sixty years of age. He was as wholly English as Mr.

Pickwick was wholly Skye, and exuded an indomitable respectability
from his formal, shaven face. Rumor had it that Mr. Gwynn was
fabulously rich.
It was in June when Mr. Gwynn came to town and leased the house just
vacated by Baron Trenk, late head of the Austrian diplomatic corps.
This leasing of itself half established Mr. Gwynn in a highest local
esteem; his being English did the rest, since in the Capital of America it
is better, socially, to come from anywhere rather than from home. In
addition to those advantages of Baron Trenk's house and an English
emanation, Mr. Gwynn made his advent indorsed to the Washington
banks by the Bank of England; also he was received by the British
Ambassador, on whom he made a call of respect the moment he set
foot in town.
It became known that Mr. Gwynn was either widower or bachelor; and
at that, coupled with his having taken a large house, the hope crept
about that in the season he would entertain. The latter thought
addressed itself tenderly to the local appetite, which was ready to be
received wherever there abode good cooks and sound wines. Mr.
Gwynn, it should be mentioned, was duly elected a member of the
Metropolitan Club--where he never went; as was likewise
Richard--who was seen there a great deal.
Richard had not come to town until both Mr. Gwynn and his house
were established. When he did appear, it was difficult for the public to
fix him in his proper place. He was reserved and icily taciturn, and that
did not blandly set his moderate years; with no friends and few
acquaintances, he seemed to prefer his own society to that of
whomsoever came about him.
Who was he?
What was he?
What were his relations with Mr. Gwynn?
Surely, Richard could be neither son nor nephew of that English

gentleman. Richard was too obviously the American of full blood; his
high cheekbones, square jaw, and lean, curved nose told of two
centuries of Western lineage. Could it be that Richard was Mr.
Gwynn's secretary? This looked in no wise probable; he went about too
much at lordly ease for that. In the end, the notion obtained that
Richard must be a needy dependent of Mr. Gwynn, and his perfect
clothes and the thoroughbred horse he rode were pointed to as
evidences of that gentleman's generosity. Indeed, Mr. Gwynn was
much profited in reputation thereby.
Richard, while not known, was not liked. He wore the air of one
self-centered, and cold to all judgments except his own. This last makes
no friends, but only enemies for him whose position is problematical.
Richard's pose of insolent indifference would have been beautiful in a
gentleman who counted his fortune by millions; in a dollarless beggar
who lived off alms it was detestable. Wherefore, the town, so far as
Richard encountered it, left our silent, supercilious one to himself,
which neglect dove-tailed with his humor and was the precise lonely
thing he sought. This gave still further edge to the public's disregard; no
one likes you to accept with grace what is intended for punishment.
Matzai carried away the breakfast tray, and Richard lighted a cigar.
Matzai returned and stood mute inside the door, awaiting new
commands. Richard pointed through the cigar-smoke to the clock--one
of those soundless, curious creatures of brass and glass and ivory which
is wound but once in four hundred days, and of which the hair-hung
pendulum twists and turns and does not swing.
"In an hour! Eleven o'clock!" said Richard.
At the risk of shaking him in general standing it should be called to
your notice that Richard preceded breakfast with no strong waters.
Richard would drink nothing more generous than coffee, and, speaking
in the sense limited, tobacco was his only vice. Perhaps he stuck to
cigars to retain