"There are so few gentlemen in this -- -- hole," he explained, "that I feel that we should all stand together." Keith, knowing J.Quincy's history, inwardly smiled.
Mr.Plume had aged since he was the speaker of the carpet-bag legislature; his black hair had begun to be sprinkled with gray, and had receded yet farther back on his high forehead, his hazel eyes were a little bleared; and his full lips were less resolute than of old.

He had evidently seen bad times since he was the facile agent of the Wickersham interests.

He wore a black suit and a gay necktie which had once been gayer, a shabby silk hat, and patent-leather shoes somewhat broken.
His addiction to cards and drink had contributed to Mr.Plume's overthrow, and after a disappearance from public view for some time he had turned up just as Gumbolt began to be talked of, with a small sheet somewhat larger than a pocket-handkerchief, which, in prophetic tribute to Gumbolt's future manufactures, he christened the _Gumbolt Whistle_.
Mr.Plume offered to introduce Keith to "the prettiest woman in Gumbolt," and, incidentally, to "the best cocktail" also.

"Terpsichore is a nymph who practises the Terpsichorean art; indeed, I may say, presides over a number of the arts, for she has the best faro-bank in town, and the only bar where a gentleman can get a drink that will not poison a refined stomach.

She is, I may say, the leader of Gumbolt society." Keith shook his head; he had come to work, he declared.
"Oh, you need not decline; you will have to know Terpy.