“Ain’t dey some of ’em here?” demanded T-S.

“Yes, that’s true.  There are some not far away, who are developing a desire to meet Mr. Carpenter, unless I miss the signs.”

“Vere are dey at?” demanded T-S.

“I won’t tell you that,” I laughed, “because you’d turn and stare into their faces.”

“So he vould!” broke in Maw.  “How often I gotta tell you, Abey?  You got no more manners dan if you vas a jimpanzy.”

“All right,” said the magnate, grinning good naturedly.  “I’ll keep a-eatin’ my dinner.  Who is it?”

“It’s Mrs. Parmelee Stebbins,” said I.  “She boasts a salon, and has to have what are called lions, and she’s been watching Mr. Carpenter out of the corner of her eye ever since he came into the room—­trying to figure out whether he’s a lion, or only an actor.  If his skin were a bit dark, she would be sure he was an Eastern potentate; as it, she’s afraid he’s of domestic origin, in which case he’s vulgar.  The company he keeps is against him; but still—­Mrs. Stebbins has had my eye three times, hoping I would give her a signal, I haven’t given it, so she’s about to leave.”

“Vell, she can go to hell!” said T-S, keeping his promise to devote himself to his dinner.  “I offered Parmelee Stebbins a tird share in ‘De Pride o’ Passion’ fer a hunded tousand dollars, and de damn fool turned me down, and de picture has made a million and a quarter a’ready.”

“Well,” said I, “he’s probably paying for it by sitting up late to buy the city council on this new franchise grab of his; and so he hasn’t kept his date to dine with his expensive family at Prince’s.  Here is Miss Lucinda Stebbins; she’s engaged to Babcock, millionaire sport and man about town, but he’s taking part in a flying race over the Rocky Mountains tonight, and so Lucinda feels bored, and she knows the vaudeville show is going to be tiresome, but still she doesn’t want to meet any freaks.  She has just said to her mother that she can’t see why a person in her mother’s position can’t be content to meet proper people, but always has to be getting herself into the newspapers with some new sort of nut.”

“My Gawd, Billy!” cried Maw.  “You got a dictaphone on dem people?”

“No, but I know the type so well, I can tell by their looks.  Lucinda is thinking about their big new palace on Grand Avenue, and she regards everyone outside her set as a burglar trying to break in.  And then there’s Bertie Stebbins, who’s thinking about a new style of collar he saw advertised to-day, and how it would look on him, and what impression it would make on his newest girl.”

It was Mary who spoke now:  “I know that little toad.  I’ve seen him dancing at the Palace with Dorothy Doodles, or whatever her name is.”

“Well,” said I, “Mrs. Stebbins runs the newer set—­those who hunt sensations, and make a splurge in the papers.  It costs like smoke, of course—­” And suddenly I stopped.  “Look out!” I whispered.  “Here she comes!”