Miss Lavinia seemed a little abashed, but Martin Cortright, who had been a silent observer until now, said:  “It surprises me to see fraternity of this sort in the midst of so many institutions of specialized exclusiveness and the decadence of clubs, that used to be veritable brotherhoods, by unwise expansion.  I like the general atmosphere, it seems cheerful and, if one may blend the terms, conservatively Bohemian.”

“Come upstairs before the music begins, so that we can get comfortably settled in the background, that I may tell you who some of these ‘unknown-to-Whirlpool-society’ people are.  You may be surprised,” said Evan to Miss Lavinia, who had by this time finished her coffee.

The rooms were cheerful with artistic simplicity.  The piano had been moved from the lounging room into the picture gallery opposite to where a fine stained glass window was exhibited, backed by electric lights.

We stowed ourselves away in a deep seat, shaped something like an old-fashioned school form, backed and cushioned with leather, to watch the audience gather.  Every phase of dress was present, from the ball gown to the rainy weather skirt, and enough of each grade to keep one another in countenance.  About half the men wore evening suits, but those who did not were completely at their ease.

There was no regular ushering to seats, but every one was placed easily and naturally.  Evan, who had Miss Lavinia in charge, was alert, and rather, it seemed to me, on the defensive; but though Martin asked questions, he was comfortably soothing, and seemed to take in much at a glance.

That short man with the fine head, white hair and beard, aquiline nose, and intense eyes is not only a poet, but the first American critic of pure literature.  He lives out of town, but comes to the city daily for a certain stimulus.  The petite woman with the pretty colour who has crossed the room to speak to him is the best known writer of New England romance.  That shy-looking fellow standing against the curtain at your right, with the brown mustache and broad forehead, is the New England sculptor whose forcible creations are known everywhere, yet he is almost shrinkingly modest, and he never, it seems, even in thought, has broken the injunction of “Let another praise thee, not thine own lips.”

Half a dozen promising painters are standing in the doorway talking to a young woman who, beginning with newspaper work, has stepped suddenly into a niche of fiction.  The tall, loose-jointed man at the left of the group, the editor of a conservative monthly, has for his vis-a-vis the artist who has had so much to do with the redemption of American architecture and decoration from the mongrel period of the middle century.  Another night you may not see a single one of these faces, but another set, yet equally interesting.

Meanwhile Martin Cortright had discovered a man, a financier and also a book collector of prominence, who was reputed to have a complete set of some early records that he had long wished to consult; he had never found a suitable time for meeting him, as the man, owing to having been oftentime the prey of both unscrupulous dealers and parasitic friends, was esteemed difficult.