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Matthew Peel-Swynnerton sat in the long dining-room of the
Pension Frensham, Rue Lord Byron, Paris; and he looked out of
place there.  It was an apartment about thirty feet in length,
and of the width of two windows, which sufficiently lighted one
half of a very long table with round ends.  The gloom of the
other extremity was illumined by a large mirror in a tarnished
gilt frame, which filled a good portion of the wall opposite the
windows.  Near the mirror was a high folding-screen of four
leaves, and behind this screen could be heard the sound of a
door continually shutting and opening.  In the long wall to the
left of the windows were two doors, one dark and important, a
door of state, through which a procession of hungry and a
procession of sated solemn self-conscious persons passed twice
daily, and the other, a smaller door, glazed, its glass painted
with wreaths of roses, not an original door of the house, but a
late breach in the wall, th