The Amateur Gentleman

It was a slender little shoe, and solitary, for fellow it had none,

and it lay exactly in the middle of the window-seat; moreover, to

the casual observer, it was quite an ordinary little shoe, ordinary,

be it understood, in all but its size.

Why, then, should Barnabas, chancing to catch sight of so ordinary

an object, start up from his breakfast (ham and eggs, and fragrant

coffee) and crossing the room with hasty step, pause to look down at

this small and lonely object that lay so exactly in the middle of

the long, deep window-seat? Why should his hand shake as he stooped

and took it up? Why should the color deepen in his pale cheek?

And all this because of a solitary little shoe! A quite ordinary

little shoe--to the casual observer! Oh, thou Casual Observer who

seeing so much, yet notices and takes heed to so little beyond thy

puny self! To whom the fairest prospect is but so much earth and so

much timber! To whom music is but an arrangement of harmonious sounds,

and man himself but a being erect upon two legs! Oh, thou Casual

Observer, what a dull, gross, self-contented clod art thou, who,

having eyes and ears, art blind and deaf to aught but things as

concrete as--thyself!

But for this shoe, it, being something worn, yet preserved the mould

of the little foot that had trodden it, a slender, coquettish little

foot, a shapely, active little foot: a foot, perchance, to trip it

gay and lightly to a melody, or hurry, swift, untiring, upon some

errand of mercy.

All this, and more, Barnabas noted (since he, for one, was no casual

observer) as he stood there in the sunlight with the little shoe

upon his palm, while the ham and eggs languished forgotten and the

coffee grew cold, for how might they hope to vie with this that had

lain so lonely, so neglected and--so exactly in the middle of the

window-seat?

Now presently, as Barnabas stood thus lost in contemplation of this

shoe, he was aware of Peterby entering behind him, and instinctively

made as if to hide the shoe in his bosom, but he checked the impulse,

turned, and glancing at Peterby, saw that his usually grave lips were

quivering oddly at the corners, and that he kept his gaze fixed

pertinaciously upon the coffee-pot; whereat the pale cheek of

Barnabas grew suffused again, and stepping forward, he laid the

little shoe upon the table.

"John," said he, pointing to it, "have you ever seen this before?"

"Why, sir," replied Peterby, regarding the little shoe with brow of

frowning portent, "I think I have."

"And pray," continued Barnabas (asking a perfectly unnecessary

question), "whose is it, do you suppose?"

"Sir," answered John, still grave of mouth and solemn of eye,

"to the best of my belief it belongs to the Lady Cleone Meredith."