At the proper hour—­the hour, it came into, his mind, when the dear ones at Rivervale had been long in sleep, lulled by the musical flow of the Deerfield—­Philip made his way to the reception room, where there actually was some press of a crowd, in lines, to approach the attraction of the evening, and as he waited his turn he had leisure to observe the brilliant scene.  There was scarcely a person in the room he knew.  One or two ladies gave him a preoccupied nod, a plain little woman whom he had talked with about books at a recent dinner smiled upon him encouragingly.  But what specially impressed him at the moment was the seriousness of the function, the intentness upon the presentation, and the look of worry on the faces of the women in arranging trains and avoiding catastrophes.

As he approached he fancied that Mr. Mavick looked weary and bored, and that a shade of abstraction occasionally came over his face as if it were difficult to keep his thoughts on the changing line.

But his face lighted up a little when he took Philip’s hand and exchanged with him the commonplaces of the evening.  But before this he had to wait a moment, for he was preceded by an important personage.  A dapper little figure, trim, neat, at the moment drew himself up before Mrs. Mavick, brought his heels together with a click, and made a low bow.  Doubtless this was the French count.  Mrs. Mavick was radiant.  Philip had never seen her in such spirits or so fascinating in manner.

“It is a great honor, count.”

“It ees to me,” said the count, with a marked accent; “I assure you it is like Paris in ze time of ze monarchy.  Ah, ze Great Republic, madame—­so it was in France in ze ancien regime.  Ah, mademoiselle!  Permit me,” and he raised her hand to his lips; “I salute—­is it not” (turning to Mrs. Mavick)—­“ze princess of ze house?”

The next man who shook hands with the host, and then stood in an easy attitude before the hostess, attracted Philip’s attention strongly, for he fancied from the deference shown him it must be the lord of whom he had heard.  He was a short, little man, with heavy limbs and a clumsy figure, reddish hair, very thin on the crown, small eyes that were not improved in expression by white eyebrows, a red face, smooth shaven and freckled.  It might have been the face of a hostler or a billiard-marker.

“I am delighted, my lord, that you could make room in your engagements to come.”

“Ah, Mrs. Mavick, I wouldn’t have missed it,” said my lord, with easy assurance; “I’d have thrown over anything to have come.  And, do you know” (looking about him coolly), “it’s quite English, ’pon my honor, quite English—­St. James and that sort of thing.”

“You flatter me, my lord,” replied the lady of the house, with a winning smile.

“No, I do assure you, it’s bang-up.  Ah, Miss Mavick, delighted, delighted.  Most charming.  Lucky for me, wasn’t it?  I’m just in time.”