“Won’t you?” he said again, in earnest, pleading tones.

There was a brief silence.  Then, looking up, she said with a frank smile: 

“It is very good of you.  Yes—­we shall be very pleased.  Saturday evening, at seven.”

CHAPTER VI

No.—­Riverside Drive, an imposing apartment house of Spanish style of architecture, situated in the most select and attractive section of that aristocratic thoroughfare, was justly renowned in the neighborhood for the size and magnificence of its suites and the ultra chic quality of its exclusive, wealthy patrons.  No one ever heard of rooms being vacant; people had been on the waiting list for years and they were still waiting.  Tenants never dreamed of leaving, once they had been fortunate enough to secure a lease.  It would be surprising if they did, for in all New York there were no apartments more desirable and comfortable.

Mr. Robert Stafford lived on the eighth floor, his rooms facing the Hudson and commanding a superb view of the stately river below, which, broad and turbulent, rushed by on its way to the sea, its surface dotted with all kinds of steam and sailing craft.  To the north, away past Grant’s Tomb, were the highlands of New Jersey and the precipitous cliffs of the historic Palisades, which, as far as the eye could reach, stretched away in a mist of purplish haze.

The decorations and appointments of the apartment would have brought joy into the gloomy heart of the most blase connoisseur.  Entering a spacious foyer with a lofty, elaborately decorated ceiling and walls of white marble hung all round with tapestries, trophies and oil paintings, the visitor passed through a number of wide halls, treading on thick Oriental rugs until he reached the salon, a magnificent room decorated in blue and gold with heavy gilt furniture to match, which, in turn, opened on to the dining room, both looking on the Avenue and commanding a fine view of the river.  At the far end of the salon was a large fireplace with a splendid mantel of beautifully carved marble, a rare piece of decorative art from the north of Italy.  The dining room, panelled with rare woods, and hung with red, with panelled ceiling, was separated from the salon by a folding door.  The walls of both rooms were covered with paintings, water colors and engravings, while all about was a picturesque confusion of objets d’art of every description—­Japanese ivories, rare porcelains, old English china, Indian bronzes, antique watches, snuff boxes and bonbonnieres, curiously wrought brass and iron work, Peach Blow vases, Mexican pottery, Satsuma ware, richly mounted weapons of the middle ages, Japanese armor, long daggers from Toledo, delicate lattice work from Venice, Florentine carvings, valuable Gobelins tapestries from Paris, etc., etc.—­a collection such as an Oriental potentate might envy.  The fame of the Stafford