Mr. King was perfectly well aware that in going to a hotel in Newport he was putting himself out of the pale of the best society; but he had a fancy for viewing this society from the outside, having often enough seen it from the inside.  And perhaps he had other reasons for this eccentric conduct.  He had, at any rate, declined the invitation of his cousin, Mrs. Bartlett Glow, to her cottage on the Point of Rocks.  It was not without regret that he did this, for his cousin was a very charming woman, and devoted exclusively to the most exclusive social life.  Her husband had been something in the oil line in New York, and King had watched with interest his evolution from the business man into the full-blown existence of a man of fashion.  The process is perfectly charted.  Success in business, membership in a good club, tandem in the Park, introduction to a good house, marriage to a pretty girl of family and not much money, a yacht, a four-in-hand, a Newport villa.  His name had undergone a like evolution.  It used to be written on his business card, Jacob B. Glow.  It was entered at the club as J. Bartlett Glow.  On the wedding invitations it was Mr. Bartlett Glow, and the dashing pair were always spoken of at Newport as the Bartlett-Glows.

When Mr. King descended from his room at the Ocean House, although it was not yet eight o’clock, he was not surprised to see Mr. Benson tilted back in one of the chairs on the long piazza, out of the way of the scrubbers, with his air of patient waiting and observation.  Irene used to say that her father ought to write a book—­“Life as Seen from Hotel Piazzas.”  His only idea of recreation when away from business seemed to be sitting about on them.

“The women-folks,” he explained to Mr. King, who took a chair beside him, “won’t be down for an hour yet.  I like, myself, to see the show open.”

“Are there many people here?”

“I guess the house is full enough.  But I can’t find out that anybody is actually stopping here, except ourselves and a lot of schoolmarms come to attend a convention.  They seem to enjoy it.  The rest, those I’ve talked with, just happen to be here for a day or so, never have been to a hotel in Newport before, always stayed in a cottage, merely put up here now to visit friends in cottages.  You’ll see that none of them act like they belonged to the hotel.  Folks are queer.”

At a place we were last summer all the summer boarders, in boarding-houses round, tried to act like they were staying at the big hotel, and the hotel people swelled about on the fact of being at a hotel.  Here you’re nobody.  I hired a carriage by the week, driver in buttons, and all that.  It don’t make any difference.  I’ll bet a gold dollar every cottager knows it’s hired, and probably they think by the drive.”

“It’s rather stupid, then, for you and the ladies.”