THE OPEN DOOR. 13 



descends for a little or greater period at the Grand 

 Hotel du Louvre et de la Paix. 



They come lean and quiet and a little yellow 

 from hard climates, with the names of strange 

 places on their lips, and they speak familiarly of 

 far-off things. Their clothes are generally of 

 ancient cut, and the wrinkles and camphor 

 aroma of a long packing away are yet discernible. 

 Often they are still wearing sun helmets or 

 double terai hats, pending a descent on a Piccadilly 

 hatter two days hence. They move slowly and 

 languidly ; the ordinary piercing and dominant 

 English enunciation has fallen to modulation ; 

 their eyes, while observant and alert, look tired. 

 It is as though the far countries have sucked some- 

 thing from the pith of them in exchange for great 

 experiences that nevertheless seem of little value ; 

 as though these men, having met at last face to 

 face the ultimate of what the earth has to offer in 

 the way of danger, hardship, difficulty, and the 

 things that try men's souls, having unexpectedly 

 found them all to fall short of both the importance 

 and the final significance with which human-kind 

 has always invested them, were now just a little 

 at a loss. Therefore they stretch their long, lean 

 frames in the wicker chairs, they sip the long 

 drinks at their elbows, puff slowly at their long, 



