ONCE upon a time, by a chance of history, a small man was thrust into greatness of place.  
Moulded in putty for a niche, he tottered and crumbled on a pedestal.
 
This pedestalled weakling, small in his great place, prayed for support. He got it on conditions—rather shabby ones. He was to acknowledge himself frightened, his niche in life a mistake. He was to deny his old views of right, and compromise away right for a novel view of ancient wrong.
 
When time came that he should remove, he was willing to stay and be a dough image in a high place; but a grateful people of a grateful republic did not invite him.
 
At another time, a grateful people rather scornfully declined him a re-invitation to the old place, though he prayed it in suppliant guise.
 
But a grateful people did as much as could be expected; they built a great hotel at Newport and named it by his name. It still lives, and its name is “The Millard.”
 
What they call the odour of respectability that[127] hangs about an old institution is not always fragrance when that institution is a hotel. There, most people prefer the odour of new paint. So it was with our dramatis personæ. They chose the Millard, not from sympathy with its name, but with its newness.
 
Mr. Waddy preferred going with Granby and Ambient, whom they had adopted, to abandoning these friends and accepting the invitation of his ambassador kinsman. So these three gentlemen inscribed themselves upon the books of the Millard.
 
Miss Arabella Budlong had just returned from her bath. She was in the hair and costume of La Sonnambula in the bridge scene, and it was a little dangerous, her rush to the window to inspect the companions of Mr. Waddy. She might have been seen—in fact, she was seen, but not recognised, by Peter Skerrett, who had arrived that morning. He called Gyas Cutus and told him to look at Venus Anadyomene, drying herself in the sun.

 ONCE upon a time, by a chance of history, a small man was thrust into greatness of place.  
Moulded in putty for a niche, he tottered and crumbled on a pedestal.
 
This pedestalled weakling, small in his great place, prayed for support. He got it on conditions—rather shabby ones. He was to acknowledge himself frightened, his niche in life a mistake. He was to deny his old views of right, and compromise away right for a novel view of ancient wrong.
 
When time came that he should remove, he was willing to stay and be a dough image in a high place; but a grateful people of a grateful republic did not invite him.
 
At another time, a grateful people rather scornfully declined him a re-invitation to the old place, though he prayed it in suppliant guise.
 
But a grateful people did as much as could be expected; they built a great hotel at Newport and named it by his name. It still lives, and its name is “The Millard.”
 
What they call the odour of respectability that[127] hangs about an old institution is not always fragrance when that institution is a hotel. There, most people prefer the odour of new paint. So it was with our dramatis personæ. They chose the Millard, not from sympathy with its name, but with its newness.
 
Mr. Waddy preferred going with Granby and Ambient, whom they had adopted, to abandoning these friends and accepting the invitation of his ambassador kinsman. So these three gentlemen inscribed themselves upon the books of the Millard.
 
Miss Arabella Budlong had just returned from her bath. She was in the hair and costume of La Sonnambula in the bridge scene, and it was a little dangerous, her rush to the window to inspect the companions of Mr. Waddy. She might have been seen—in fact, she was seen, but not recognised, by Peter Skerrett, who had arrived that morning. He called Gyas Cutus and told him to look at Venus Anadyomene, drying herself in the sun.

“Anna who?” asked Gyas. “That’s Belle Bud. She’s always drying at this hour, and I believe doesn’t care who knows it. I say, Peter, who are those chaps just come in? You know everybody before he is born. A very neat lot they are.”
 
“That brown one with the cheroot is Ira Waddy,” replied Peter, “the partner of the great East Indian[128] banker, Jimsitchy Jibbybohoy. The big man is the Grand Duke Constantine, come over to study our institutions, republican and peculiar, with a view to the emancipation of serfs. Number three is the eldest hope of the Pope.”
 
“Gaaz!” said Gyas, with indescribable intonation. “The Pope don’t have eldest sons.”
 
“I would be willing to have him the old gentleman’s youngest to please you,” replied Peter, “but historic truth is a grave thing. Apropo............