“Mr. Hooker,” she stammered.

It was, indeed, Jim Hooker.  But the role of his exaggeration was no longer the same; the remorseful gloom in which he had been habitually steeped had changed into a fatigued, yet haughty, fastidiousness more in keeping with his fashionable garments.  He was more peaceful, yet not entirely placable, and, as he sat down at a side table and pulled down his striped cuffs with his clasped fingers, he cast a glance of critical disapproval on the general company.  Nevertheless, he seemed to be furtively watchful of his effect upon them, and as one or two whispered and looked towards him, his consciousness became darkly manifest.

All of which might have intimidated the gentle Phoebe, but did not discompose her father.  He rose, and crossing over to Hooker’s table, clapped him heartily on the back.

“How do, Hooker?  I didn’t recognize you in them fine clothes, but Phoebe guessed as how it was you.”

Flushed, disconcerted, irritated, but always in wholesome awe of Mr. Hopkins, Jim returned his greeting awkwardly and half hysterically.  How he would have received the more timid Phoebe is another question.  But Mr. Hopkins, without apparently noticing these symptoms, went on:—­

“We’re only just down, Phoebe and me, and as I guess we’ll want to talk over old times, we’ll come alongside o’ you.  Hold on, and I’ll fetch her.”

The interval gave the unhappy Jim a chance to recover himself, to regain his vanished cuffs, display his heavy watch-chain, curl his mustache, and otherwise reassume his air of blase fastidiousness.  But the transfer made, Phoebe, after shaking hands, became speechless under these perfections.  Not so her father.

“If there’s anything in looks, you seem to be prospering,” he said grimly; “unless you’re in the tailorin’ line, and you’re only showin’ off stock.  What mout ye be doing?”

“Ye ain’t bin long in Sacramento, I reckon?” suggested Jim, with patronizing pity.

“No, we only came this morning,” returned Hopkins.

“And you ain’t bin to the theatre?” continued Jim.

“No.”

“Nor moved much in—­in—­gin’ral fash’nable sassiety?”

“Not yet,” interposed Phoebe, with an air of faint apology.

“Nor seen any of them large posters on the fences, of ’The Prairie Flower; or, Red-handed Dick,’—­three-act play with five tableaux,—­just the biggest sensation out,—­runnin’ for forty nights,—­money turned away every night,—­standin’ room only?” continued Jim, with prolonged toleration.

“No.”

“Well, I play Red-handed Dick.  I thought you might have seen it and recognized me.  All those people over there,” darkly indicating the long table, “know me.  A fellow can’t stand it, you know, being stared at by such a vulgar, low-bred lot.  It’s gettin’ too fresh here.  I’ll have to give the landlord notice and cut the whole hotel.  They don’t seem to have ever seen a gentleman and a professional before.”