Mr. Twist, it will be seen, was frankly unreasonable, but then he was very much taken aback and annoyed.  What was he to do with the Annas?  He was obviously not a relation of theirs—­and indeed no profiles could have been less alike—­and he didn’t suppose Acapulco was behind other parts of America in curiosity and gossip.  If he stayed on at the Cosmopolitan with the twins till Mrs. Dellogg was approachable again, whenever that might be, every sort of question would be being asked in whispers about who they were and what was their relationship, and presently whenever they sat down anywhere the chairs all round them would empty.  Mr. Twist had seen the kind of thing happening in hotels before to other people,—­never to himself; never had he been in any situation till now that was not luminously regular.  And quite soon after this with the chairs had begun to happen, the people who created these vacancies were told by the manager—­firmly in America, politely in England, and sympathetically in France—­that their rooms had been engaged a long time ago for the very next day, and no others were available.

The Cosmopolitan was clearly an hotel frequented by the virtuous rich.  Mr. Twist felt that he and the Annas wouldn’t, in their eyes, come under this heading, not, that is, when the other guests became aware of the entire absence of any relationship between him and the twins.  Well, for a day or two nothing could happen; for a day or two, before his party had had time to sink into the hotel consciousness and the manager appeared to tell him the rooms were engaged, he could think things out and talk them over with his companions.  Perhaps he might even see Mrs. Dellogg.  The funeral, he had heard on inquiring of the hall porter was next day.  It was to be a brilliant affair, said the porter.  Mr. Dellogg had been a prominent inhabitant, free with his money, a supporter of anything there was to support.  The porter talked of him as the taxi-driver had done, regretfully and respectfully; and Mr. Twist went to bed angrier than ever with a man who, being so valuable and so necessary, should have neglected at such a moment to go on living.

Mr. Twist didn’t sleep very well that night.  He lay in his rosy room, under a pink silk quilt, and most of the time stared out through the open French windows with their pink brocade curtains at the great starry night, thinking.

In that soft bed, so rosy and so silken as to have been worthy of the relaxations of, at least, a prima donna, he looked like some lean and alien bird nesting temporarily where he had no business to.  He hadn’t thought of buying silk pyjamas when the success of his teapot put him in the right position for doing so, because his soul was too simple for him to desire or think of anything less candid to wear in bed than flannel, and he still wore the blue flannel pyjamas of a careful bringing up.  In that beautiful bed his pyjamas didn’t seem appropriate.  Also