By far my greatest motive in going to the Old Swan was to see Betty,
whose beauty and sweetness had begun to haunt me about that time.
If Mary Hamilton had shown me the least evidence of warmth, my admiration
for Bettina, perhaps, would have remained merely admiration. But in view
of Mary's admirable self-control, I found myself falling into a method
of thought morally then prevalent with all modish men. I confess with
shame that I hoped to have Mary for my wife and Bettina to love me and to
be loved. I did not know Betty then, and have regretted all my life that
once I looked upon her as--well, as a barmaid. While I thoroughly
realized that she was an unusual girl in many respects, still I held to a
theory then prevalent that barmaids were created to be kissed.
When I reached the Old Swan, I chose a table in a remote corner of the
tap-room, ordered a lobster from one of the maids, and, while waiting for
it, drank a cup of wormwood wine.
The place seemed dingy and drear with its great ceiling beams of
time-darkened oak, its long, narrow windows of small square panes, its
black fireplace, lifeless without the flames, and its dark, grim mahogany
bar stretching halfway across the south side of the room. The white
floor, well sanded and polished, seemed only to accentuate the general
gloom, and the great clock, ticking solemnly behind the bar, seemed to be
marking time for a funeral dirge.
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