There was the house, sure enough; but the door was of another

colour, and what was this - two door-plates? He drew nearer;

the top one bore, with dignified simplicity, the words, 'Mr.

Proudfoot'; the lower one was more explicit, and informed the

passer-by that here was likewise the abode of 'Mr. J. A.

Dunlop Proudfoot, Advocate.' The Proudfoots must be rich,

for no advocate could look to have much business in so remote

a quarter; and John hated them for their wealth and for their

name, and for the sake of the house they desecrated with

their presence. He remembered a Proudfoot he had seen at

school, not known: a little, whey-faced urchin, the

despicable member of some lower class. Could it be this

abortion that had climbed to be an advocate, and now lived in

the birthplace of Flora and the home of John's tenderest

memories? The chill that had first seized upon him when he

heard of Houston's absence deepened and struck inward. For a

moment, as he stood under the doors of that estranged house,

and looked east and west along the solitary pavement of the

Royal Terrace, where not a cat was stirring, the sense of

solitude and desolation took him by the throat, and he wished

himself in San Francisco.

And then the figure he made, with his decent portliness, his

whiskers, the money in his purse, the excellent cigar that he

now lighted, recurred to his mind in consolatory comparison

Tales and Fantasies