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Henry's ill-timed addresses with favour, or even with patience:
she plainly and positively refused to listen to him. 'Why do you remind

me of what I have suffered?' she asked petulantly. 'Don't you see
that it has left its mark on me for life?'

'I thought I knew something of women by this time,' Henry said,
appealing privately to Lady Montbarry for consolation. 'But Agnes

completely puzzles me. It is a year since Montbarry's death; and she
remains as devoted to his memory as if he had died faithful to her--

she still feels the loss of him, as none of us feel it!'
'She is the truest woman that ever breathed the breath of life,'

Lady Montbarry answered. 'Remember that, and you will understand her.
Can such a woman as Agnes give her love or refuse it,

according to circumstances? Because the man was unworthy of her,
was he less the man of her choice? The truest and best friend to him

(little as he deserved it) in his lifetime, she naturally
remains the truest and best friend to his memory now.

If you really love her, wait; and trust to your two best friends--
to time and to me. There is my advice; let your own experience

decide whether it is not the best advice that I can offer.
Resume your journey to Venice to-morrow; and when you take leave of Agnes,

speak to her as cordially as if nothing had happened.'
Henry wisely followed this advice. Thoroughly understanding him,

Agnes made the leave-taking friendly and pleasant on her side.
When he stopped at the door for a last look at her, she hurriedly turned

her head so that her face was hidden from him. Was that a good sign?
Lady Montbarry, accompanying Henry down the stairs, said, 'Yes, decidedly!

Write when you get to Venice. We shall wait here to receive letters
from Arthur and his wife, and we shall time our departure for

Italy accordingly.'
A week passed, and no letter came from Henry. Some days later,

a telegram was received from him. It was despatched from Milan,
instead of from Venice; and it brought this strange message:--'I have

left the hotel. Will return on the arrival of Arthur and his wife.
Address, meanwhile, Albergo Reale, Milan.'

Preferring Venice before all other cities of Europe, and having
arranged to remain there until the family meeting took place,

what unexpected event had led Henry to alter his plans? and why
did he state the bare fact, without adding a word of explanation?

Let the narrative follow him--and find the answer to those questions
at Venice.

CHAPTER XVII
The Palace Hotel, appealing for encouragementmainly to English

and American travellers, celebrated the opening of its doors,
as a matter of course, by the giving of a grand banquet,

and the delivery of a long succession of speeches.
Delayed on his journey, Henry Westwick only reached Venice

in time to join the guests over their coffee and cigars.
Observing the splendour of the reception rooms, and taking

note especially of the artful mixture of comfort and luxury in
the bedchambers, he began to share the old nurse's view of the future,

and to contemplateseriously the coming dividend of ten per cent.
The hotel was beginning well, at all events. So much interest

in the enterprise had been aroused, at home and abroad,
by profuse advertising, that the whole accommodation of the building

had been secured by travellers of all nations for the opening night.
Henry only obtained one of the small rooms on the upper floor,

by a lucky accident--the absence of the gentleman who had written
to engage it. He was quite satisfied, and was on his way to bed,

when another accident altered his prospects for the night, and moved him
into another and a better room.

Ascending on his way to the higher regions as far as the first floor
of the hotel, Henry's attention was attracted by an angry voice protesting,

in a strong New England accent, against one of the greatest
hardships that can be inflicted on a citizen of the United States--

the hardship of sending him to bed without gas in his room.
The Americans are not only the most hospitable people to be found

on the face of the earth--they are (under certain conditions)
the most patient and good-tempered people as well. But they are human;

and the limit of American endurance is found in the obsolete institution
of a bedroom candle. The American traveller, in the present case,

declined to believe that his bedroom was in a complete finished state
without a gas-burner. The managerpointed to the fine antique decorations

(renewed and regilt) on the walls and the ceiling, and explained
that the emanations of burning gas-light would certainly spoil

them in the course of a few months. To this the traveller replied
that it was possible, but that he did not understand decorations.

A bedroom with gas in it was what he was used to, was what he wanted,
and was what he was determined to have. The compliant manager

volunteered to ask some other gentleman, housed on the inferior
upper storey (which was lit throughout with gas), to change rooms.

Hearing this, and being quite willing to exchange a small bedchamber
for a large one, Henry volunteered to be the other gentleman.

The excellent American shook hands with him on the spot. 'You are
a cultured person, sir,' he said; 'and you will no doubt understand

the decorations.'
Henry looked at the number of the room on the door as he opened it.

The number was Fourteen.
Tired and sleepy, he naturally anticipated a good night's rest.

In the thoroughlyhealthy state of his nervoussystem, he slept
as well in a bed abroad as in a bed at home. Without the slightest

assignable reason, however, his just expectations were disappointed.
The luxurious bed, the well-ventilated room, the delicious tranquillity

of Venice by night, all were in favour of his sleeping well.
He never slept at all. An indescribable sense of depression and

discomfort kept him waking through darkness and daylight alike.
He went down to the coffee-room as soon as the hotel was astir,

and ordered some breakfast. Another unaccountable change
in himself appeared with the appearance of the meal. He was

absolutely without appetite. An excellent omelette, and cutlets
cooked to perfection, he sent away untasted--he, whose appetite

never failed him, whose digestion was still equal to any demands
on it!

The day was bright and fine. He sent for a gondola, and was rowed
to the Lido.

Out on the airy Lagoon, he felt like a new man. He had not left
the hotel ten minutes before he was fast asleep in the gondola.

Waking, on reaching the landing-place, he crossed the Lido,
and enjoyed a morning's swim in the Adriatic. There was only a poor

restaurant on the island, in those days; but his appetite was now ready
for anything; he ate whatever was offered to him, like a famished man.

He could hardly believe, when he reflected on it, that he had sent
away untasted his excellent breakfast at the hotel.

Returning to Venice, he spent the rest of the day in the picture-galleries
and the churches. Towards six o'clock his gondola took him back,

with another fine appetite, to meet some travelling acquaintances
with whom he had engaged to dine at the table d'hote.

The dinner was deservedly rewarded with the highest approval by every
guest in the hotel but one. To Henry's astonishment, the appetite

with which he had entered the house mysteriously and completely left
him when he sat down to table. He could drink some wine, but he could

literally eat nothing. 'What in the world is the matter with you?'
his travelling acquaintances asked. He could honestly answer,

'I know no more than you do.'
When night came, he gave his comfortable and beautiful bedroom

another trial. The result of the second experiment was a repetition
of the result of the first. Again he felt the all-pervading sense

of depression and discomfort. Again he passed a sleepless night.
And once more, when he tried to eat his breakfast, his appetite

completely failed him!
This personal experience of the new hotel was too extraordinary

to be passed over in silence. Henry mentioned it to his friends
in the public room, in the hearing of the manager. The manager,

naturally zealous in defence of the hotel, was a little hurt at the
implied reflection cast on Number Fourteen. He invited the travellers

present to judge for themselves whether Mr. Westwick's bedroom
was to blame for Mr. Westwick's sleepless nights; and he especially

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