There was poor Clarrie Mason:  Clarrie, sitting in at bridge, with an expression of feverish eagerness upon his pale face.  Clarrie always lost, and it positively broke his heart, though he had ten millions laid by on ice.  Clarrie went about all day, bemoaning his brother, who had been kidnapped.  Had Montague not heard about it?  Well, the newspapers called it a marriage, but it was really a kidnapping.  Poor Larry Mason was good-natured and weak in the knees, and he had been carried off by a terrible creature, three times as big as himself, and with a temper like—­oh, there were no words for it!  She had been an actress; and now she had carried Larry away in her talons, and was building a big castle to keep him in—­for he had ten millions too, alas!

And then there was Bertie Stuyvesant, beautiful and winning—­the boy who had sat opposite Montague at dinner.  Bertie’s father had been a coal man, and nobody knew how many millions he had left.  Bertie was gay; last week he had invited them to a brook-trout breakfast—­in November—­and that had been a lark!  Somebody had told him that trout never really tasted good unless you caught them yourself, and Bertie had suddenly resolved to catch them for that breakfast.  “They have a big preserve up in the Adirondacks,” said Betty; “and Bertie ordered his private train, and he and Chappie de Peyster and some others started that night; they drove I don’t know how many miles the next day, and caught a pile of trout—­and we had them for breakfast the next morning!  The best joke of all is that Chappie vows they were so full they couldn’t fish, and that the trout were caught with nets!  Poor Bertie—­somebody’ll have to separate him from that decanter now!”

From the hall there came loud laughter, with sounds of scuffling, and cries, “Let me have it!”—­“That’s Baby de Mille,” said Miss Wyman.  “She’s always wanting to rough-house it.  Robbie was mad the last time she was down here; she got to throwing sofa-cushions, and upset a vase.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be good form?” asked Montague.

“Not at Robbie’s,” said she.  “Have you had a chance to talk with Robbie yet?  You’ll like him—­he’s serious, like you.”

“What’s he serious about?”

“About spending his money,” said Betty.  “That’s the only thing he has to be serious about.”

“Has he got so very much?”

“Thirty or forty millions,” she replied; “but then, you see, a lot of it’s in the inner companies of his railroad system, and it pays him fabulously.  And his wife has money, too—­she was a Miss Mason, you know, her father’s one of the steel crowd.  We’ve a saying that there are millionaires, and then multi-millionaires, and then Pittsburg millionaires.  Anyhow, the two of them spend all their income in entertaining.  It’s Robbie’s fad to play the perfect host—­he likes to have lots of people round him.  He does put up good times—­only he’s so very important about it, and he has so many ideas of what is proper!  I guess most of his set would rather go to Mrs. Jack Warden’s any day; I’d be there to-night, if it hadn’t been for Ollie.”