All this, despite the orderly way in which the millionaire’s house was run, had developed a certain nervous anxiety in the host himself, the effect of which had not yet worn off, although but a few minutes would elapse before the arrival of the guests.  This was apparent in the rise and fall of Breen’s heels, as he seesawed back and forth on the hearth-rug in the satin-lined drawing-room, with his coattails spread to the life less grate, and from the way he glanced nervously at the mirror to see that his cravat was properly tied and that his collar did not ride up in the back.

The only calm person in the house was the ex-widow.  With the eyes of a major-general sweeping the field on the eve of an important battle, she had taken in the disposition of the furniture, the hang of the curtains and the placing of the cushions and lesser comforts.  She had also arranged with her own hands the masses of narcissus and jonquils on the mantels, and had selected the exact shade of yellow tulips which centred the dining-room table.  It was to be a “Gold-Mine Dinner,” so Arthur had told her, “and everything must be in harmony.”

Then seeing Parkins, who had entered unexpectedly and caught her in the act (it is bad form for a hostess to arrange flowers in some houses—­the butler does that), she asked in an indifferent tone:  “And how many are we to have for dinner, Parkins?” She knew, of course, having spent an hour over a diagram placing the guests.

“Fourteen, my lady.”

“Fourteen!—­really, quite a small affair.”  And with the air of one accustomed all her life to banquets in palaces of state, she swept out of the room.

The only time she betrayed herself was just before the arrival of the guests, when her mind reverted to her daughter.

“The Portmans are giving a ball next week, Arthur, and I want Corinne to go.  Are you sure he is coming?”

“Don’t worry, Kitty, Portman’s coming; and so are the Colonel, and Crossbin, and Hodges, and the two Chicago directors, and Mason, and a lot more.  Everybody’s coming, I tell you.  If Mukton Lode doesn’t sit up and take notice with a new lease of life after tonight, I’m a Dutchman.  Run, there’s the bell.”

The merciful Scribe will spare the reader the details incident upon the arrival of the several guests.  These dinners are all alike:  the announcements by the butler; the passing of the cocktails on a wine tray; the standing around until the last man has entered the drawing-room; the perfunctory talk—­the men who have met before hobnobbing instantly with each other, the host bearing the brunt of the strangers; the saunter into the dining-room, the reading of cards, and the “Here you are, Mr. Portman, right alongside Mr. Hodges.  And Crossbin, you are down there somewhere”; the spreading of napkins and squaring of everybody’s elbow as each man drops into his seat.