I have heard men say: "I'd
like to have a house--a moderate-sized house--one about the size of Mowbray
Langdon's--though perhaps a little more elegant, not so plain."
That's typical of the man. You have to look closely at him, to study him,
before you appreciate how he has combined a thousand details of manner and
dress into an appearance which, while it can not but impress the ordinary
man with its distinction, suggests to all but the very observant the most
modest plainness and simplicity. How few realize that simplicity must be
profound, complex, studied, not to be and to appear crude and coarse. In
those days that truth had just begun to dawn on me.
"Mr. Langdon isn't at home," said the servant.
I had been at his house once before; I knew he occupied the left side--the
whole of the second floor, so shut off that it not only had a separate
entrance, but also could not be reached by those in the right side of
the house without descending to the entrance hall and ascending the left
stairway.
"Just take my card to his private secretary, to Mr. Rathburn," said I. "Mr.
Langdon has doubtless left a message for me."
The butler hesitated, yielded, showed me into the reception-room off the
entrance hall.
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