the first time since he landed, he had shaken the creases.  There was Tim Kelsey, in the suit of clothes he wore every day, the only difference being the high collar instead of the turned-down one, the change giving him the appearance of a man with a bandaged neck, so narrow were his poor shoulders and so big was the fine head overtopping it.  There were Mike and Bobby and the two Dutchies and Sanderson, who came with his hands full of roses for Masie, and a score of others whose names the scribe forgets, besides lots and lots of children of all sizes and ages.

And there were Kitty and John—­and they were both magnificent—­at least Kitty was—­she being altogether resplendent in black alpaca finished off by a fichu of white lace, her big, full-bosomed, robust body filling it without a crease; and he in a new suit bought for the occasion, and which fitted him everywhere except around the waist—­a defect which Kitty had made good by means of a well-concealed safety-pin in the back.

It was for Kitty that Felix had been on the lookout ever since the guests began to arrive, and no sooner did her rosy, beaming face appear behind that of her husband, than he pushed his way through the throng to reach her side.  “No, not out here, Mistress Kitty,” he cried.  Had she been of royal blood he could not have treated her with more distinction.  “You are to stand alongside of Masie when she comes in; the child has no mother, and you must look after her.”

“No mother!  Mr. O’Day!  God rest your soul, she won’t need to do without one long, she’s that lovely.  There’ll be plenty will want to mother, and brother her, too, for that matter.  My goodness, what a place ye made of it!  Look at them lamps, all fireworks up there, and that big chair!  I wonder who robbed a church to get it!  Well—­well—–­well!  John! did ye ever see the like?  Otto, ye ought to rent this place out for a chowder-party ball.  Well, well, I never!”

The comments of some of the others, while they voiced their complete surprise, were less enthusiastic.  Bundleton, after shaking hands with Felix and Kitty, and then with Kling, dropped his wife and made a tour of the room without uttering a sound of any kind until he reached Felix again, when he remarked gravely:  “I should think it would worry you some to keep the moths out of this stuff,” and then passed on to tell Kling he must look out “them lamps didn’t spill and set things on fire.”

Porterfield, as was to be expected, was distinctly practical.  “Awful lot of truck when you get it all together, ain’t it, Mr. O’Day?  I was just tellin’ my wife that them two chairs up t’other side of the room wouldn’t last long in my parlor, they’re that wabbly.  But maybe these Fifth Avenue folks don’t do no sittin’—­just keep ’em in a glass case to look at.”

Pestler was more discerning.  He had come across an iridescent glass jar, and was edging around for an opportunity to ask Kling the price without letting Felix overhear him—­it being an occasion, he knew, in which Mr. O’Day would feel offended if business were mentioned.  “Might do to put in my window, if it didn’t cost too much,” he had begun, and as suddenly stopped as he caught Felix’s eyes fastened upon him.