Montague ran the gauntlet of the other guests:  Charlie Carter, a beautiful, dark-haired boy, having the features of a Greek god, but a sallow and unpleasant complexion; Major “Bob” Venable, a stout little gentleman with a red face and a heavy jowl; Mrs. Frank Landis, a merry-eyed young widow with pink cheeks and auburn hair; Willie Davis, who had been a famous half-back, and was now junior partner in the banking-house; and two young married couples, whose names Montague missed.

The name written on his card was Mrs. Alden.  She came in just after him—­a matron of about fifty, of vigorous aspect and ample figure, approaching what he had not yet learned to call embonpoint.  She wore brocade, as became a grave dowager, and upon her ample bosom there lay an ornament the size of a man’s hand, and made wholly out of blazing diamonds—­the most imposing affair that Montague had ever laid eyes upon.  She gave him her hand to shake, and made no attempt to disguise the fact that she was looking him over in the meantime.

“Madam, dinner is served,” said the stately butler; and the glittering procession moved into the dining-room—­a huge state apartment, finished in some lustrous jet-black wood, and with great panel paintings illustrating the Romaunt de la Rose.  The table was covered with a cloth of French embroidery, and gleaming with its load of crystal and gold plate.  At either end there were huge candlesticks of solid gold, and in the centre a mbund of orchids and lilies of the valley, matching in colour the shades of the candelabra and the daintily painted menu cards.

“You are fortunate in coming to New York late in life,” Mrs. Alden was saying to him.  “Most of our young men are tired out before they have sense enough to enjoy anything.  Take my advice and look about you—­don’t let that lively brother of yours set the pace for you.”

In front of Mrs. Alden there was a decanter of Scotch whisky.  “Will you have some?” she asked, as she took it up.

“No, I thank you,” said he, and then wondered if perhaps he should not have said yes, as he watched the other select the largest of the half-dozen wine-glasses clustered at her place, and pour herself out a generous libation.

“Have you seen much of the city?” she asked, as she tossed it off—­without as much as a quiver of an eyelash.

“No,” said he.  “They have not given me much time.  They took me off to the country—­to the Robert Wallings’.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Alden; and Montague, struggling to make conversation, inquired, “Do you know Mr. Walling?”

“Quite well,” said the other, placidly.  “I used to be a Walling myself, you know.”

“Oh,” said Montague, taken aback; and then added, “Before you were married?”

“No,” said Mrs. Alden, more placidly than ever, “before I was divorced.”

There was a dead silence, and Montague sat gasping to catch his breath.  Then suddenly he heard a faint subdued chuckle, which grew into open laughter; and he stole a glance at Mrs. Alden, and saw that her eyes were twinkling; and then he began to laugh himself.  They laughed together, so merrily that others at the table began to look at them in perplexity.