Mr. Huddlestone, in a long yellow dressing gown, took one end of the
table, Clara the other; while Northmour and I faced each other from the
sides. The lamp was brightly trimmed; the wine was good; the viands,
although mostly cold, excellent of their sort. We seemed to have agreed
tacitly; all reference to the impending catastrophe was carefully avoided;
and, considering our tragic circumstances, we made a merrier party than
could have been expected. From time to time, it is true, Northmour or I
would rise from table and make a round of the defenses; and, on each of
these occasions, Mr. Huddlestone was recalled to a sense of his tragic
predicament, glanced up with ghastly eyes, and bore for an instant on his
countenance the stamp of terror. But he hastened to empty his glass, wiped
his forehead with his handkerchief, and joined again in the conversation.
I was astonished at the wit and information he displayed. Mr.
Huddlestone's was certainly no ordinary character; he had read and
observed for himself; his gifts were sound; and, though I could never have
learned to love the man, I began to understand his success in business,
and the great respect in which he had been held before his failure. He
had, above all, the talent of society; and though I never heard him speak
but on this one and most unfavorable occasion, I set him down among the
most brilliant conversationalists I ever met.
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