Above the chimney-piece a
bloated old man in vineleaves that might be Silenus. And over against
the door of the parlour what I took to be a picture of Potiphar's wife,
she looked out of the paint so bold and beauteous and craftily. Birds
and fishes in cases stared glassily,--owl and kestrel, jack and eel
and gudgeon. All was clean and comfortable as a hospitable inn can be.
But they who frequented it interested me much more--as various and
animated a gathering as any I have seen. Yet in some peculiar manner
they seemed one and all not to the last tittle quite of this world.
They were, so to speak, more earthy, too definite, too true to the
mould, like figures in a bleak, bright light viewed out of darkness.
Certainly not one of them was at first blush prepossessing. Yet who
finds much amiss with the fox at last, though all he seems to have be
cunning?
Near beside me, however, sat retired a man a little younger and more
at his ease than most of the many there, and as busy with his eyes and
ears as I. His name, I learned presently, was Reverie; and from him I
gathered not a little information regarding the persons who talked and
sipped around us.
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