There was no little surprise when he sent out invitations for a large dinner.  His grandfather had been dead less than a month, and society was somewhat scandalized by the plain symptoms of disrespect he was showing.  No one had expected him to observe a prolonged season of mourning, but that he should disregard the formalities completely was rather shocking.  Some of the older people, who had not long to live and who had heirs-apparent, openly denounced his heartlessness.  It was not very gratifying to think of what might be in store for them if all memories were as short as Brewster’s.  Old Mrs. Ketchell changed her will, and two nephews were cut off entirely; a very modest and impecunious grandson of Joseph Garrity also was to sustain a severe change of fortune in the near future, if the cards spoke correctly.  Judge Van Woort, who was not expected to live through the night, got better immediately after hearing some one in the sick-room whisper that Montgomery Brewster was to give a big dinner.  Naturally, the heirs-to-be condemned young Brewster in no uncertain terms.

Nevertheless, the dinner to be given by the grandson of old Edwin Peter Brewster was the talk of the town, and not one of the sixty invited guests could have been persuaded to miss it.  Reports as to its magnificence were abroad long before the night set for the dinner.  One of them had it that it was to cost $3,000 a plate.  From that figure the legendary price receded to a mark as low as $500.  Montgomery would have been only too glad to pay $3,000 or more, but some mysterious force conveyed to his mind a perfect portrait of Swearengen Jones in the act of putting down a large black mark against him, and he forbore.

“I wish I knew whether I had to abide by the New York or the Montana standard of extravagance,” Brewster said to himself.  “I wonder if he ever sees the New York papers.”

Late each night the last of the grand old Brewster family went to his bedroom where, after dismissing his man, he settled down at his desk, with a pencil and a pad of paper.  Lighting the candles, which were more easily managed, he found, than lamps, and much more costly, he thoughtfully and religiously calculated the expenses for the day.  “Nopper” Harrison and Elon Gardner had the receipts for all moneys spent, and Joe Bragdon was keeping an official report, but the “chief,” as they called him, could not go to sleep until he was satisfied in his own mind that he was keeping up the average.  For the first two weeks it had been easy—­ in fact, he seemed to have quite a comfortable lead in the race.  He had spent almost $100,000 in the fortnight, but he realized that the greater part of it had gone into the yearly and not the daily expense-account.  He kept a “profit and loss” entry in his little private ledger, but it was not like any other account of the kind in the world.  What the ordinary merchant would have charged to “loss” he jotted down on the “profit” side, and he was continually looking for opportunities to swell the total.