Never is Society with the big, big S more flattered than when they are bidden to partake of good cheer at the distinguished and hospitable residence of Mr. and Mrs. Charles L. McKelvey as they were last night.  Set in its spacious lawns and landscaping, one of the notable sights crowning Royal Ridge, but merry and homelike despite its mighty stone walls and its vast rooms famed for their decoration, their home was thrown open last night for a dance in honor of Mrs. McKelvey’s notable guest, Miss J. Sneeth of Washington.  The wide hall is so generous in its proportions that it made a perfect ballroom, its hardwood floor reflecting the charming pageant above its polished surface.  Even the delights of dancing paled before the alluring opportunities for tete-a-tetes that invited the soul to loaf in the long library before the baronial fireplace, or in the drawing-room with its deep comfy armchairs, its shaded lamps just made for a sly whisper of pretty nothings all a deux; or even in the billiard room where one could take a cue and show a prowess at still another game than that sponsored by Cupid and Terpsichore.

There was more, a great deal more, in the best urban journalistic style of Miss Elnora Pearl Bates, the popular society editor of the Advocate-Times.  But Babbitt could not abide it.  He grunted.  He wrinkled the newspaper.  He protested:  “Can you beat it!  I’m willing to hand a lot of credit to Charley McKelvey.  When we were in college together, he was just as hard up as any of us, and he’s made a million good bucks out of contracting and hasn’t been any dishonester or bought any more city councils than was necessary.  And that’s a good house of his—­though it ain’t any ‘mighty stone walls’ and it ain’t worth the ninety thousand it cost him.  But when it comes to talking as though Charley McKelvey and all that booze-hoisting set of his are any blooming bunch of of, of Vanderbilts, why, it makes me tired!”

Timidly from Mrs. Babbitt:  “I would like to see the inside of their house though.  It must be lovely.  I’ve never been inside.”

“Well, I have!  Lots of—­couple of times.  To see Chaz about business deals, in the evening.  It’s not so much.  I wouldn’t want to go there to dinner with that gang of, of high-binders.  And I’ll bet I make a whole lot more money than some of those tin-horns that spend all they got on dress-suits and haven’t got a decent suit of underwear to their name!  Hey!  What do you think of this!”

Mrs. Babbitt was strangely unmoved by the tidings from the Real Estate and Building column of the Advocate-Times: 

     Ashtabula Street, 496—­J.  K. Dawson to
     Thomas Mullally, April 17, 15.7 X 112.2,
     mtg. $4000 . . . . . . . . . . . . .  Nom

And this morning Babbitt was too disquieted to entertain her with items from Mechanics’ Liens, Mortgages Recorded, and Contracts Awarded.  He rose.  As he looked at her his eyebrows seemed shaggier than usual.  Suddenly: