It was into this set that the old general now
introduced him. Mr. Roscorla had quite the air of a bashful young man
when he made one of a party of those ancients, who dined at the same
table each evening. He was almost ashamed to order a pint of champagne
for himself--it savored so much of youth. He was silent in the
presence of his seniors, and indeed they were garrulous enough to
cover his silence. Their talk was mostly of politics--not the politics
of the country, but the politics of office--of undersecretaries and
candidates for place. They seemed to look on the government of the
country as a sort of mechanical clock, which from time to time sent
out a few small figures, and from time to time took them in again; and
they showed an astonishing acquaintance with the internal and
intricate mechanism which produced these changes. Perhaps it was
because they were so busy in watching for changes on the face of the
clock that they seemed to forget the swinging onward of the great
world outside and the solemn march of the stars.
Most of those old gentlemen had lived their life--had done their share
of heavy dining and reckless drinking many years ago--and thus it was
they had come to drink seltzer and claret.
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