First came a notice of the next meeting of the Numismatic Society of which he was an honored member; then a bill for his semi-annual dues at the Century Club; next a delicately scented sheet inviting him to dine with the Van Wormleys of Washington Square, to meet an English lord and his lady, followed by a pressing letter to spend Sunday with friends in the country.  Then came a long letter from his sister, Miss Felicia Grayson, who lived in the Genesee Valley and who came to New York every winter for what she was pleased to call “The Season” (a very remarkable old lady, this Miss Felicia Grayson, with a mind of her own, sections of which she did not hesitate to ventilate when anybody crossed her or her path, and of whom we shall hear more in these pages), together with the usual assortment of bills and receipts, the whole an enlivening record not only of Peter’s daily life and range of taste, but of the limitations of his purse as well.

One letter was reserved for the last.  This he held in his hand until he again ran his eye over the pile before him.  It was from Holker Morris the architect, a man who stood at the head of his profession.

“Yes, Holker’s handwriting,” he said as he inserted the end of the paper cutter.  “I wonder what the dear fellow wants now?” Here he ran his eye over the first page.  “Listen, Major.  What an extraordinary man ...  He’s going to give a dinner, he says, to his draughtsmen ... in his offices at the top of his new building, six stories up.  Does the rascal think I have nothing to do but crawl up his stairs?  Here, I’ll read it to you.”

“‘You, dear Peter:’  That’s just like Holker!  He begins that way when he wants me to do something for him.  ’No use saying you won’t come, for I shall be around for you at seven o’clock with a club—­ ‘No, that’s not it—­he writes so badly—­’with a cab.’  Yes, that’s it—­’with a cab.’  I wonder if he can drive me up those six flights of stairs?  ’There’ll be something to eat, and drink, and there will be fifty or more of my draughtsmen and former employes.  I’m going to give them a dinner and a house-warming.  Bring the Major if you see him.  I have sent a note to his room, but it may not reach him.  No dress suit, remember.  Some of my men wouldn’t know one if they saw it.”

As the letter dropped from Peter’s hand a scraping of feet was heard at the hall door, followed by a cheery word from Mrs. McGuffey—­she had her favorites among Peter’s friends—­and Holker Morris burst into the room.

“Ah, caught you both!” he cried, all out of breath with his run upstairs, his hat still on his head.  No one blew in and blew out of Peter’s room (literally so) with the breeze and dash of the distinguished architect.  “Into your coats, you two—­we haven’t a moment to spare.  You got my letter, of course,” he added, throwing back the cape of his raincoat.

“Yes, Holker, just opened it!” cried Peter, holding out both hands to his guest.  “But I’m not going.  I am too old for your young fellows—­take the Major and leave me behind.”