But as Prentice rounded the corner and passed between the potted palms, the Fates once again laid claim to their supremacy, to their dominion over mortal men. For there, under the painted ceiling, a delicate beauty sat blithely in his chair—turning indifferently through the pages of Gander, the latest periodical dedicated to the rise and fall of the latest. One could hardly blame her for choosing his chair. It was an inviting chair, plush and well positioned. And she had no reason to know better.

He stole a glance around the room looking for the desk captain or concierge, both of whom were otherwise engaged. So, letting his eyebrows droop and leaning on his cane a tad more than necessary, he approached.

—Ahem.

Looking up from her periodical, the young woman, who had seemed such a delicate beauty from afar, revealed a scar on her face that could have marked the nemesis of Zorro! Her eyebrows rose with a poised curiosity. In the instant, he could see that there would be no appealing to sympathies. He resumed his upright posture.

—Pardon me for the intrusion, he ventured. But would it inconvenience you terribly to move to this other chair?

He pointed his cane lightly at the empty seat three feet to her left.

—My girth, you see, demands unusual quarter.

She tilted her head and smiled.

—But they are the same size . . .

He cleared his throat.

—Yes. So they are, so they are. And as such, I daresay I could presumably fit in this empty chair. But you see, I am afraid . . . How does one put it . . . ? It is not my chair.

She laid her magazine in her lap and sat back, as if to say that she was ready to hear his case with unwavering attention. God bless her!

He adopted the bearing of Cicero.

—Young lady, he began, though I have stayed in this hotel without interruption for more than one thousand nights, that should not give me claim to special privileges in the lobby. Were you to spend but a single night in the hotel, you would have every right to expect all of its graces. So, I will not appeal to your sense of propriety. What I must appeal to instead is your sense of forbearance. For I am quite simply an aging, overweight oncewas who no longer lays claim to his city’s storied indulgences—other, that is, than to invest the four o’clock hour observing the Turn of the Wheel from this my Elba . . . my fence post . . . my perch.

The young woman smiled delightfully and shifted to the adjoining chair.

—You are a woman of great courtesy, Prentice said with a bow.

—Hardly, she replied. But I’ve got a soft spot for oncewases.

•

EXEMPLIFYING THE GRACE OF the well bred, the young woman accepted Prentice’s offer to share a pot of tea and a plate of currant scones with clotted cream and jam.