No other people in the world are so hospitable as the Americans, and so willing to incur discomfort in showing hospitality.  No greater proof of this can be needed than the effort to give princely entertainments in un-princely houses, where opposing streams of guests fight for progress in scant passages and on narrow stairways, and pack themselves in stifling rooms.  The Mavick house, it should be said, was perfectly adapted to the throng that seemed to fill but did not crowd it.  The spacious halls, the noble stairways, the ample drawing-rooms, the ballroom, the music-room, the library, the picture-gallery, the dining-room, the conservatory—­into these the crowd flowed or lingered without confusion or annoyance and in a continual pleasure of surprise.  “The best point of view,” said an artist of Philip’s acquaintance, “is just here.”  They were standing in the great hall looking up at that noble gallery from which flowed down on either hand a broad stairway.

“I didn’t know there was so much beauty in New York.  It never before had such an opportunity to display itself.  There is room for the exhibition of the most elaborate toilets, and the costumes really look regal in such a setting.”

When Philip was shown to the dressing-room, conscious that the servant was weighing him lightly in the social scale on account of his early arrival, he found a few men who were waiting to make their appearance more seasonable.  They were young men, who had the air of being bored by this sort of thing, and greeted each other with a look of courteous surprise, as much as to say, “Hello! you here?” One of them, whom Philip knew slightly, who had the reputation of being the distributer if not the fountain of social information, and had the power of attracting gossip as a magnet does iron filings, gave Philip much valuable information concerning the function.

“Mrs. Mavick has done it this time.  Everybody has tumbled in.  Washington is drained of its foreign diplomats, the heavy part of the cabinet is moved over to represent the President, who sent a gracious letter, the select from Boston, the most ancient from Philadelphia, and I know that Chicago comes in a special train.  Oh, it’s the thing.  I assure you there was a scramble for invitations in the city.  Lots of visiting nobility—­Count de l’Auney, I know, and that little snob, Lord Montague.”

“Who is he?”

“Lord Crewe Monmouth Fitzwilliam, the Marquis of Montague, eldest son of the Duke of Tewkesbury.  He’s a daisy.

“They say he is over here looking for capital to carry on his peer business when he comes into it.  Don’t know who put up the money for the trip.  These foreigners keep a sharp eye on our market, I can tell you.  They say she is a nice little girl, rather a blue-stocking, face rather intelligent than pretty, but Montague won’t care for that—­excuse the old joke, but it is the figure Monte is after.  He hasn’t any manners, but he’s not a bad sort of a fellow, generally good-natured, immensely pleased with New York, and an enthusiastic connoisseur in club drinks.”