St. George edged into the packed room, swept his glance over the throng, and made his way through the laughing groups, greeting every one right and left, old and young, as he moved—­a kiss here on the upturned cheek of some pretty girl whom he had carried in his arms when a baby; a caressing pat of approbation on some young gallant’s shoulder; a bend of the head in respectful homage to those he knew but slightly—­the Baroness de Trobiand, Mrs. Cheston’s friend, being one of them; a hearty hand held out to the men who had been away for the summer—­interrupted now and then by some such sally from a young bride as—­“Oh, you mean Uncle George!  No—­I’m not going to love you any more!  You promised you would come to my party and you didn’t, and my cotillon was all spoiled!” or a—­“Why, Temple, you dear man!-I’m so glad to see you!  Don’t forget my dinner on Thursday.  The Secretary is coming and I want you to sit between him and Lord Atherton”—­a sort of triumphal procession, really—­until he reached the end of the room and stood at Kate’s side.

“Well, sweetheart!” he cried gayly, caressing her soft hand before his fingers closed over it.  Then his face hardened.  “Ah, Mr. Willits!  So you, too, must come under the spell of Mr. Horn’s voice,” and without waiting for a reply continued as if nothing had interrupted the joy of his greeting.  “You should sit down somewhere, my dear Kate—­get as near to Richard as you can, so you can watch his face—­that’s the best part of it.  And I should advise you, too, Mr. Willits, to miss none of his words—­it will be something you will remember all your life.”

Kate looked up in his face with a satisfied smile.  She was more than glad that her Uncle George was so gracious to her escort, especially to-night when he was to meet a good many people for the first time.

“I’ll take the stool, then, dear Uncle George,” she answered with a merry laugh.  “Go get it, please, Mr. Willits—­the one under the sofa.”  Then, with a toss of her head and a coquettish smile at St. George:  “What a gadabout you are; do you know I’ve been three times to see you, and not a soul in your house and the front door wide open, and everything done up in curl papers as if you were going to move away for good and all and never coming back?  And do you know that you haven’t been near me for a whole week?  What do you mean by breaking my heart?  Thank you, Mr. Willits; put the stool right here, so I can look up into Mr. Horn’s eyes as Uncle George wants me to.  I’ve known the time, sir”—­and she arched her brows at St. George—­“when you would be delighted to have me look my prettiest at you, but now before I am halfway across the park you slip out of the basement door to avoid me and—­No!—­no—­no apologies—­you are just tired of me!”