he found his bag at least Congreve's bag, he had borrowed it for the occasion—had been unpacked, and Franklin's dress-suit was laid out on the bed.
Before he began to dress Hart looked out of the window. Tom, the coachman, was rubbing down one of the contented-looking horses in front of a diminutive stable at the end of the neat driveway.
Hart sat for some time watching him. He was not filled with envy at all this luxury, yet he thought how fine a thing it must be to be rich—for he imagined that Mr. Bliss must be a nabob and nothing else, to possess all these comforts. How different it was from Oakland. What a strange break had been made in his life!—and yet suddenly he checked himself. Was not this sort of thing going to make him discontented and unhappy? Could he ever go back to the smell of ham and nails, or to sitting again in his shirt sleeves in the front room over the store, where he could imagine Mabel pouring over the pages of The Lady's Journal, her hair neatly frizzed, and, alas and alas! her pretty jaws working contentedly and thoughtfully on a bit of fragrant chewing gum?
