Witherspoon was lordly, and in his smile a stranger might have seen a life of generosities.

And with what a welcoming dignity he took the hand that in its time had cut the throats of a thousand hogs.
Diamonds gleamed in the mellowed light, and there were smiles none the less radiant for having been carefully trained.

The evening was warm.
There was a wing-like movement of feathered fans.

Scented time was flying away.
The guests were gone, and Henry sat in his room.

He had thrown off the garments which convention had prescribed, and now, with his feet on a table, he sat smoking an old black pipe that he had lolled with on the mountains of Costa Rica.