And then there was Mrs. Harper, who came from Chicago by way of London.  Ten years ago Mrs. Harper had overwhelmed New York with the millions brought from her great department-store; and had then moved on, sighing for new worlds to conquer.  When she had left Chicago, her grammar had been unexceptionable; but since she had been in England, she said “you ain’t” and dropped all her g’s; and when Montague brought down a bird at long range, she exclaimed, condescendingly, “Why, you’re quite a dab at it!” He sat in the front seat of an automobile, and heard the great lady behind him referring to the sturdy Jersey farmers, whose ancestors had fought the British and Hessians all over the state, as “your peasantry.”

It was an extraordinary privilege to have Mrs. Harper for a guest; “at home” she moved about in state recalling that of Queen Victoria, with flags and bunting on the way, and crowds of school children cheering.  She kept up half a dozen establishments, and had a hundred thousand acres of game preserves in Scotland.  She made a speciality of collecting jewels which had belonged to the romantic and picturesque queens of history.  She appeared at the dance in a breastplate of diamonds covering the entire front of her bodice, so that she was literally clothed in light; and with her was her English friend, Mrs. Percy, who had accompanied her in her triumph through the courts and camps of Europe, and displayed a famous lorgnette-chain, containing one specimen of every rare and beautiful jewel known.  Mrs. Percy wore a gown of cloth of gold tissue, covered with a fortune in Venetian lace, and made a tremendous sensation—­until the rumour spread that it was a rehash of the costume which Mrs. Harper had worn at the Duchess of London’s ball.  The Chicago lady herself never by any chance appeared in the same costume twice.

Alice had a grand time at the Todds’; all the men fell in love with her—­one in particular, a young chap named Fayette, quite threw himself at her feet.  He was wealthy, but unfortunately he had made his money by eloping with a rich girl (who was one of the present party), and so, from a practical point of view, his attentions were not desirable for Alice.

Montague was left with the task of finding these things out for himself, for his brother devoted himself exclusively to Betty Wyman.  The way these two disappeared between meals was a jest of the whole company; so that when they were on their way home, Montague felt called upon to make paternal inquiries.

“We’re as much engaged as we dare to be,” Oliver answered him.

“And when do you expect to marry her?”

“God knows,” said he, “I don’t.  The old man wouldn’t give her a cent.”

“And you couldn’t support her?”

“I?  Good heavens, Allan—­do you suppose Betty would consent to be poor?”

“Have you asked her?” inquired Montague.

“I don’t want to ask her, thank you!  I’ve not the least desire to live in a hovel with a girl who’s been brought up in a palace.”