He watched several games, in which men and women took part; and later on, when the tennis and other players appeared, he joined them in a plunge.  Afterward, he entered one of the electric elevators and was escorted to his room, where he found his bag unpacked, and his evening attire laid out upon the bed.

It was about nine when the party went into the dining-room, which opened upon a granite terrace and loggia facing the sea.  The room was finished in some rare black wood, the name of which he did not know; soft radiance suffused it, and the table was lighted by electric candles set in silver sconces, and veiled by silk shades.  It gleamed with its load of crystal and silver, set off by scattered groups of orchids and ferns.  The repast of the afternoon had been simply a lunch, it seemed—­and now they had an elaborate dinner, prepared by Robbie Waiting’s famous ten-thousand-dollar chef.  In contrast with the uproar of the inn was the cloistral stillness of this dining-room, where the impassive footmen seemed to move on padded slippers, and the courses appeared and vanished as if by magic.  Montague did his best to accustom himself to the gowns of the women, which were cut lower than any he had ever seen in his life; but he hesitated every time he turned to speak to the young lady beside him, because he could look so deep down into her bosom, and it was difficult for him to realize that she did not mind it.

The conversation was the same as before, except that it was a little more general, and louder in tone; for the guests had become more intimate, and as Robbie Walling’s wines of priceless vintage poured forth, they became a little “high.”  The young lady who sat on Montague’s right was a Miss Vincent, a granddaughter of one of the sugar-kings; she was dark-skinned and slender, and had appeared at a recent lawn fete in the costume of an Indian maiden.  The company amused itself by selecting an Indian name for her; all sorts of absurd ones were suggested, depending upon various intimate details of the young lady’s personality and habits.  Robbie caused a laugh by suggesting “Little Dewdrop”—­it appeared that she had once been discovered writing a poem about a dewdrop; some one else suggested “Little Raindrop,” and then Ollie brought down the house by exclaiming, “Little Raindrop in the Mud-puddle!” A perfect gale of laughter swept over the company, and it must have been a minute before they could recover their composure; in order to appreciate the humour of the sally it was necessary to know that Miss Vincent had “come a cropper” at the last meet of the Long Island Hunt Club, and been extricated from a slough several feet deep.