Supper was served in the inner room opening from the corridor lit by a few swinging lanterns of polished horn and a dozen wax candles of sacerdotal size and suggestion. The apartment, though spacious¹, was low and crypt-like, and was not relieved by the two deep oven-like hearths² that warmed it without the play of firelight. But when the company had assembled it was evident that the velvet³ jackets, gold lace, silver buttons, and red sashes of the entertainers not only lost their tawdry and theatrical⁴ appearance in the half decorous and thoughtful gloom, but actually seemed more in harmony with it than the modern dresses of the guests. It was the Excelsior party who looked strange and bizarre in these surroundings; to the sensitive fancy of Miss Keene, Mrs. Brimmer's Parisian toilet had an air of provincial⁵ assumption; her own pretty Zouave jacket and black silk skirt horrified⁶ her with its apparent ostentatious eccentricity⁷; and Mrs. Markham and Miss Chubb seemed dowdy⁸ and overdressed beside the satin mantillas and black lace of the Senoritas. Nor were the gentlemen less outres: the stiff correctness of Mr. Banks, and the lighter⁹ foppishness of Winslow and Crosby, not to mention Senor Perkins' more pronounced unconventionality, appeared as burlesques¹⁰ of their own characters in a play. The crowning contrast was reached by Captain Bunker, who, in accordance with the habits of the mercantile marine¹² of that period when in port, wore a shore-going suit of black broadcloth, with a tall hat, high shirt collar, and diamond pin. Seated next to the Commander, it was no longer Don Miguel who looked old-fashioned, it was Captain Bunker who appeared impossible.

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