The Queen of Sheba and my Cousin the Colonel by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

When Edward Lynde returned to the hotel that night, after parting with / Flemming at the head of a crooked, gable-hung street leading to the / Schweizerhof, the young man regretted that he had said anything on the / subject of the Denhams, or rather, that he had spoken of the painful / likeness which had haunted him so persistently. The friends had spent / the gayest of evenings together at a small green-topped table in one / corner of the smoky cafe. Over their beer and cheese they had chatted / of old days at boarding-school and college, and this contact with the / large, healthy nature of Flemming, which threw off depression as / sunshine dissipates mist, had sent Lynde's vapors flying. Nothing was / changed in the circumstances that had distressed him, yet some way a / load had removed itself from his bosom. He was sorry he had mentioned / that dark business at all. As he threaded the deserted streets -- it was / long after midnight -- he planned a dinner to be given in his rooms the / next day, and formulated a note of invitation to the ladies, which he / would write when he got back to the hotel, and have in readiness for / early delivery in the morning.

Lynde was in one of those lightsome moods which, in that varying month, / had not unfrequently followed a day of doubt and restless despondency. / As he turned into the Quai des Bergues he actually hummed a bar or two / of opera. He had not done that before in six weeks. They had been weeks / of inconceivable torment and pleasure to Lynde.