They came to the great Ocean Driveway. Here were many automobiles,
nearly all going one way, and nearly all racing. There were two
which stuck to Oliver and would not be left behind--one, two, three
--one, two, three--they passed and repassed. Their dust was
blinding, and the continual odour was sickening; and so Oliver set
his lips tight, and the little dial on the indicator began to creep
ahead, and they whirled away down the drive. "Catch us this time!"
he muttered.

A few seconds later Oliver gave a sudden exclamation, as a
policeman, concealed behind a bush at the roadside, sprang out and
hailed them. The policeman had a motor-cycle, and Oliver shouted to
the mechanic, "Pull the cord!" His brother turned, alarmed and
perplexed, and saw the man reach down to the floor of the car. He
saw the policeman leap upon the cycle and start to follow. Then he
lost sight of him in the clouds of dust.

For perhaps five minutes they tore on, tense and silent, at a pace
that Montague had never equalled in an express train. Vehicles
coming the other way would leap into sight, charging straight at
them, it seemed, and shooting past a hand's breadth away. Montague
had just about made up his mind that one such ride would last him
for a lifetime, when he noticed that they were slacking up. "You can
let go the cord," said Oliver. "He'll never catch us now."

"What is the cord?" asked the other.

"It's tied to the tag with our number on, in back. It swings it up
so it can't be seen."

They were turning off into a country road, and Montague sank back
and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. "Is that a common
trick?" he asked.

"Quite," said the other. "Mrs. Robbie has a trough of mud in their
garage, and her driver sprinkles the tag every time before she goes
out. You have to do something, you know, or you'd be taken up all
the time."

"Have you ever been arrested?"

"I've only been in court once," said Oliver. "I've been stopped a
dozen times."

"What did they do the other times--warn you?"

"Warn me?" laughed Oliver. "What they did was to get in with me and
ride a block or two, out of sight of the crowd; and then I slipped
them a ten-dollar bill and they got out."

To which Montague responded, "Oh, I see!"

They turned into a broad macadamized road, and here were more autos,
and more dust, and more racing. Now and then they crossed a trolley
or a railroad track, and here was always a warning sign; but Oliver
must have had some occult way of knowing that the track was clear,
for he never seemed to slow up. Now and then they came to villages,
and did reduce speed; but from the pace at which they went through,
the villagers could not have suspected it.

And then came another adventure. The road was in repair, and was
very bad, and they were picking their way, when suddenly a young man
who had been walking on a side path stepped out before them, and
drew a red handkerchief from his pocket, and faced them, waving it.
Oliver muttered an oath.

"What's the matter?" cried his brother.

"We're arrested!" he exclaimed.

"What!" gasped the other. "Why, we were not going at all."

"I know," said Oliver; "but they've got us all the same."

He must have made up his mind at one glance that the case was
hopeless, for he made no attempt to put on speed, but let the young
man step aboard as they reached him.

"What is it?" Oliver demanded.

"I have been sent out by the Automobile Association," said the
stranger, "to warn you that they have a trap set in the next town.
So watch out."

And Oliver gave a gasp, and said, "Oh! Thank you!" The young man
stepped off, and they went ahead, and he lay back in his seat and
shook with laughter.

"Is that common?" his brother asked, between laughs.

"It happened to me once before," said Oliver. "But I'd forgotten it
completely."

They proceeded very slowly; and when they came to the outskirts of
the village they went at a funereal pace, while the car throbbed in
protest. In front of a country store they saw a group of loungers
watching them, and Oliver said, "There's the first part of the trap.
They have a telephone, and somewhere beyond is a man with another
telephone, and beyond that a man to stretch a rope across the road."

"What would they do with you?" asked the other.

"Haul you up before a justice of the peace, and fine you anywhere
from fifty to two hundred and fifty dollars. It's regular highway
robbery--there are some places that boast of never levying taxes;
they get all their money out of us!"

Oliver pulled out his watch. "We're going to be late to lunch,
thanks to these delays," he said. He added that they were to meet at
the "Hawk's Nest," which he said was an "automobile joint."

Outside of the town they "hit it up" again; and half an hour later
they came to a huge sign, "To the Hawk's Nest," and turned off. They
ran up a hill, and came suddenly out of a pine-forest into view of a
hostelry, perched upon the edge of a bluff overlooking the Sound.
There was a broad yard in front, in which automobiles wheeled and
sputtered, and a long shed that was lined with them.

Half a dozen attendants ran to meet them as they drew up at the
steps. They all know Oliver, and two fell to brushing his coat, and
one got his cap, while the mechanic took the car to the shed. Oliver
had a tip for each of them; one of the things that Montague observed
was that in New York you had to carry a pocketful of change, and
scatter it about wherever you went. They tipped the man who carried
their coats and the boy who opened the door. In the washrooms they
tipped the boys who filled the basins for them and those who gave
them a second brushing.

The piazzas of the inn were crowded with automobiling parties, in
all sorts of strange costumes. It seemed to Montague that most of
them were flashy people--the men had red faces and the women had
loud voices; he saw one in a sky-blue coat with bright scarlet
facing. It occurred to him that if these women had not worn such
large hats, they would not have needed quite such a supply of the
bright-coloured veiling which they wound over the hats and tied
under their chins, or left to float about in the breeze.

The dining-room seemed to have been built in sections, rambling
about on the summit of the cliff. The side of it facing the water
was all glass, and could be taken down. The ceiling was a maze of
streamers and Japanese lanterns, and here and there were
orange-trees and palms and artificial streams and fountains. Every
table was crowded, it seemed; one was half-deafened by the clatter
of plates, the voices and laughter, and the uproar of a negro
orchestra of banjos, mandolins, and guitars. Negro waiters flew here
and there, and a huge, stout head-waiter, who was pirouetting and
strutting, suddenly espied Oliver, and made for him with smiles of
welcome.

"Yes, sir--just come in, sir," he said, and led the way down the
room, to where, in a corner, a table had been set for sixteen or
eighteen people. There was a shout, "Here's Ollie!"--and a pounding
of glasses and a chorus of welcome--"Hello, Ollie! You're late,
Ollie! What's the matter--car broke down?"

Of the party, about half were men and half women. Montague braced
himself for the painful ordeal of being introduced to sixteen people
in succession, but this was considerately spared him. He shook hands
with Robbie Walling, a tall and rather hollow-chested young man,
with slight yellow moustaches; and with Mrs. Robbie, who bade him
welcome, and presented him with the freedom of the company.

Then he found himself seated between two young ladies, with a waiter
leaning over him to take his order for the drinks. He said, a little
hesitatingly, that he would like some whisky, as he was about
frozen, upon which the girl on his right, remarked, "You'd better
try a champagne cocktail--you'll get your results quicker." She
added, to the waiter, "Bring a couple of them, and be quick about
it."

"You had a cold ride, no doubt, in that low car," she went on, to
Montague. "What made you late?"

"We had some delays," he answered. "Once we thought we were
arrested."

"Arrested!" she exclaimed; and others took up the word, crying, "Oh,
Ollie! tell us about it!"

Oliver told the tale, and meantime his brother had a chance to look
about him. All of the party were young--he judged that he was the
oldest person there. They were not of the flashily dressed sort, but
no one would have had to look twice to know that there was money in
the crowd. They had had their first round of drinks, and started in
to enjoy themselves. They were all intimates, calling each other by
their first names. Montague noticed that these names always ended in
"ie,"--there was Robbie and Freddie and Auggie and Clarrie and
Bertie and Chappie; if their names could not be made to end
properly, they had nicknames instead.

"Ollie" told how they had distanced the policeman; and Clarrie Mason
(one of the younger sons of the once mighty railroad king) told of a
similar feat which his car had performed. And then the young lady
who sat beside him told how a fat Irish woman had skipped out of
their way as they rounded a corner, and stood and cursed them from
the vantage-point of the sidewalk.

The waiter came with the liquor, and Montague thanked his neighbour,
Miss Price. Anabel Price was her name, and they called her "Billy";
she was a tall and splendidly formed creature, and he learned in due
time that she was a famous athlete. She must have divined that he
would feel a little lost in this crowd of intimates, and set to work
to make him feel at home--an attempt in which she was not altogether
successful.

They were bound for a shooting-lodge, and so she asked him if he
were fond of shooting. He replied that he was; in answer to a
further question he said that he had hunted chiefly deer and wild
turkey. "Ah, then you are a real hunter!" said Miss Price. "I'm
afraid you'll scorn our way."

"What do you do?" he inquired.

"Wait and you'll see," replied she; and added, casually, "When you
get to be pally with us, you'll conclude we don't furnish."

Montague's jaw dropped just a little. He recovered himself, however,
and said that he presumed so, or that he trusted not; afterward,
when he had made inquiries and found out what he should have said,
he had completely forgotten what he HAD said.--Down in a hotel in
Natchez there was an old head-waiter, to whom Montague had once
appealed to seat him next to a friend. At the next meal, learning
that the request had been granted, he said to the old man, "I'm
afraid you have shown me partiality"; to which the reply came, "I
always tries to show it as much as I kin." Montague always thought
of this whenever he recalled his first encounter with "Billy" Price.

The young lady on the other side of him now remarked that Robbie was
ordering another "topsy-turvy lunch." He inquired what sort of a
lunch that was; she told him that Robbie called it a "digestion
exercise." That was the only remark that Miss de Millo addressed to
him during the meal (Miss Gladys de Mille, the banker's daughter,
known as "Baby" to her intimates). She was a stout and round-faced
girl, who devoted herself strictly to the business of lunching; and
Montague noticed at the end that she was breathing rather hard, and
that her big round eyes seemed bigger than ever.

Conversation was general about the table, but it was not easy
conversation to follow. It consisted mostly of what is known as
"joshing," and involved acquaintance with intimate details of
personalities and past events. Also, there was a great deal of slang
used, which kept a stranger's wits on the jump. However, Montague
concluded that all his deficiencies were made up for by his brother,
whose sallies were the cause of the loudest laughter. Just now he
seemed to the other more like the Oliver he had known of old--for
Montague had already noted a change in him. At home there had never
been any end to his gaiety and fun, and it was hard to get him to
take anything seriously; but now he kept all his jokes for company,
and when he was alone he was in deadly earnest. Apparently he was
working hard over his pleasures.

Montague could understand how this was possible. Some one, for
instance, had worked hard over the ordering of the lunch--to secure
the maximum of explosive effect. It began with ice-cream, moulded in
fancy shapes and then buried in white of egg and baked brown. Then
there was a turtle soup, thick and green and greasy; and
then--horror of horrors--a great steaming plum-pudding. It was
served in a strange phenomenon of a platter, with six long, silver
legs; and the waiter set it in front of Robbie Walling and lifted
the cover with a sweeping gesture--and then removed it and served it
himself. Montague had about made up his mind that this was the end,
and begun to fill up on bread-and-butter, when there appeared cold
asparagus, served in individual silver holders resembling andirons.
Then--appetite now being sufficiently whetted--there came quail, in
piping hot little casseroles--; and then half a grape-fruit set in a
block of ice and filled with wine; and then little squab ducklings,
bursting fat, and an artichoke; and then a cafe parfait; and
then--as if to crown the audacity--huge thick slices of roast beef!
Montague had given up long ago--he could keep no track of the deluge
of food which poured forth. And between all the courses there were
wines of precious brands, tumbled helter-skelter,--sherry and port,
champagne and claret and liqueur. Montague watched poor "Baby" de
Mille out of the corner of his eye, and pitied her; for it was
evident that she could not resist the impulse to eat whatever was
put before her, and she was visibly suffering. He wondered whether
he might not manage to divert her by conversation, but he lacked the
courage to make the attempt.

The meal was over at four o'clock. By that time most of the other
parties were far on their way to New York, and the inn was deserted.
They possessed themselves of their belongings, and one by one their
cars whirled away toward "Black Forest."

Montague had been told that it was a "shooting-lodge." He had a
vision of some kind of a rustic shack, and wondered dimly how so
many people would be stowed away. When they turned off the main
road, and his brother remarked, "Here we are," he was surprised to
see a rather large building of granite, with an archway spanning the
road. He was still more surprised when they whizzed through and went
on.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"To 'Black Forest,'" said Oliver.

"And what was that we passed?"

"That was the gate-keeper's lodge," was Oliver's reply.






CHAPTER IV





They ran for about three miles upon a broad macadamized avenue, laid
straight as an arrow's flight through the forest; and then the sound
of the sea came to them, and before them was a mighty granite pile,
looming grim in the twilight, with a draw-bridge and moat, and four
great castellated towers. "Black Forest" was built in imitation of a
famous old fortress in Provence--only the fortress had forty small
rooms, and its modern prototype had seventy large ones, and now
every window was blazing with lights. A man does not let himself be
caught twice in such a blunder; and having visited a
"shooting-lodge" which had cost three-quarters of a million dollars
and was set in a preserve of ten thousand acres, he was prepared for
Adirondack "camps" which had cost half a million and Newport
"cottages" which had cost a million or two.

Liveried servants took the car, and others opened the door and took
their coats. The first thing they saw was a huge, fireplace, a
fireplace a dozen feet across, made of great boulders, and with
whole sections of a pine tree blazing in it. Underfoot was polished
hardwood, with skins of bear and buffalo. The firelight flickered
upon shields and battle-axes and broad-swords, hung upon the oaken
pillars; while between them were tapestries, picturing the Song of
Roland and the battle of Roncesvalles. One followed the pillars of
the great hall to the vaulted roof, whose glass was glowing
blood-red in the western light. A broad stairway ascended to the
second floor, which opened upon galleries about the hall.

Montague went to the fire, and stood rubbing his hands before the
grateful blaze. "Scotch or Irish, sir?" inquired a lackey, hovering
at his side. He had scarcely given his order when the door opened
and a second motor load of the party appeared, shivering and rushing
for the fire. In a couple of minutes they were all assembled--and
roaring with laughter over "Baby" de Millc's account of how her car
had run over a dachshund. "Oh, do you know," she cried, "he simply
POPPED!"

Half a dozen attendants hovered about, and soon the tables in the
hall were covered with trays containing decanters and siphons. By
this means everybody in the party was soon warmed up, and then in
groups they scattered to amuse themselves.

There was a great hall for indoor tennis, and there were half a
dozen squash-courts. Montague knew neither of these games, but he
was interested in watching the water-polo in the swimming-tank, and
in studying the appointments of this part of the building. The tank,
with the walls and floor about it, were all of marble; there was a
bronze gallery running about it, from which one might gaze into the
green depths of the water. There were luxurious dressing-rooms for
men and women, with hot and cold needle-baths, steam-rooms with
rubbers in attendance and weighing and lifting machines, electric
machines for producing "violet rays," and electric air-blasts for
the drying of the women's hair.

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.

This was explained to Montague by the young lady on his left--the
one whose half-dressed condition caused his embarrassment. She was
only about twenty, with a wealth of golden hair and the bright,
innocent face of a child; he had not yet learned her name, for every
one called her "Cherub." Not long after this she made a remark
across the table to Baby de Mille, a strange jumble of syllables,
which sounded like English, yet was not. Miss de Mille replied, and
several joined in, until there was quite a conversation going on.
"Cherub" explained to him that "Baby" had invented a secret
language, made by transposing letters; and that Ollie and Bertie
were crazy to guess the key to it, and could not.

The dinner lasted until late. The wine-glasses continued to be
emptied, and to be magically filled again. The laughter was louder,
and now and then there were snatches of singing; women lolled about
in their chairs-one beautiful boy sat gazing dreamily across the
table at Montague, now and then closing his eyes, and opening them
more and more reluctantly. The attendants moved about, impassive and
silent as ever; no one else seemed to be cognizant of their
existence, but Montague could not help noticing them, and wondering
what they thought of it all.

When at last the party broke up, it was because the bridge-players
wished to get settled for the evening. The others gathered in front
of the fireplace, and smoked and chatted. At home, when one planned
a day's hunting, he went to bed early and rose before dawn; but
here, it seemed, there was game a-plenty, and the hunters had
nothing to consider save their own comfort.

The cards were played in the vaulted "gun-room." Montague strolled
through it, and his eye ran down the wall, lined with glass cases
and filled with every sort of firearm known to the hunter. He
recalled, with a twinge of self-abasement, that he had suggested
bringing his shotgun along!

He joined a group in one corner, and lounged in the shadows, and
studied "Billy" Price, whose conversation had so mystified him.
"Billy," whose father was a banker, proved to be a devotee of
horses; she was a veritable Amazon, the one passion of whose life
was glory. Seeing her sitting in this group, smoking cigarettes, and
drinking highballs, and listening impassively to risque stories, one
might easily draw base conclusions about Billy Price. But as a
matter of fact she was made of marble; and the men, instead of
falling in love with her, made her their confidante, and told her
their troubles, and sought her sympathy and advice.

Some of this was explained to Montague by a young lady, who, as the
evening wore on, came in and placed herself beside him. "My name is
Betty Wyman," she said, "and you and I will have to be friends,
because Ollie's my side partner."

Montague had to meet her advances; so had not much time to speculate
as to what the term "side partner" might be supposed to convey.
Betty was a radiant little creature, dressed in a robe of deep
crimson, made of some soft and filmy and complicated material; there
was a crimson rose in her hair, and a living glow of crimson in her
cheeks. She was bright and quick, like a butterfly, full of strange
whims and impulses; mischievous lights gleamed in her eyes and
mischievous smiles played about her adorable little cherry lips.
Some strange perfume haunted the filmy dress, and completed the
bewilderment of the intended victim.

"I have a letter of introduction to a Mr. Wyman in New York," said
Montague. "Perhaps he is a relative of yours."

"Is he a railroad president?" asked she; and when he answered in the
affirmative, "Is he a railroad king?" she whispered, in a mocking,
awe-stricken voice, "Is he rich--oh, rich as Solomon--and is he a
terrible man, who eats people alive all the time?"

"Yes," said Montague--"that must be the one."

"Well," said Betty, "he has done me the honour to be my granddaddy;
but don't you take any letter of introduction to him."

"Why not?" asked he, perplexed.

"Because he'll eat YOU," said the girl. "He hates Ollie."

"Dear me," said the other; and the girl asked, "Do you mean that the
boy hasn't said a word about me?"

"No," said Montague--"I suppose he left it for you to do."

"Well," said Betty, "it's like a fairy story. Do you ever read fairy
stories? In this story there was a princess--oh, the most beautiful
princess! Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Montague. "She wore a red rose in her hair."

"And then," said the girl, "there was a young courtier--very
handsome and gay; and they fell in love with each other. But the
terrible old king--he wanted his daughter to wait a while, until he
got through conquering his enemies, so that he might have time to
pick out some prince or other, or maybe some ogre who was wasting
his lands--do you follow me?"

"Perfectly," said he. "And then did the beautiful princess pine
away?"

"Um--no," said Betty, pursing her lips. "But she had to dance
terribly hard to keep from thinking about herself." Then she
laughed, and exclaimed, "Dear me, we are getting poetical!" And
next, looking sober again, "Do you know, I was half afraid to talk
to you. Ollie tells me you're terribly serious. Are you?"

"I don't know," said Montague--but she broke in with a laugh, "We
were talking about you at dinner last night. They had some whipped
cream done up in funny little curliques, and Ollie said, 'Now, if my
brother Allan were here, he'd be thinking about the man who fixed
this cream, and how long it took him, and how he might have been
reading "The Simple Life."' Is that true?"

"It involves a question of literary criticism"--said Montague.

"I don't want to talk about literature," exclaimed the other. In
truth, she wanted nothing save to feel of his armour and find out if
there were any weak spots through which he could be teased. Montague
was to find in time that the adorable Miss Elizabeth was a very
thorny species of rose--she was more like a gay-coloured wasp, of
predatory temperament.

"Ollie says you want to go down town and work," she went on. "I
think you're awfully foolish. Isn't it much nicer to spend your time
in an imitation castle like this?"

"Perhaps," said ho, "but I haven't any castle."

"You might get one," answered Betty. "Stay around awhile and let us
marry you to a nice girl. They will all throw themselves at your
feet, you know, for you have such a delicious melting voice, and you
look romantic and exciting." (Montague made a note to inquire
whether it was customary in New York to talk about you so frankly to
your face.)

Miss Betty was surveying him quizzically meantime. "I don't know,"
she said. "On second thoughts, maybe you'll frighten the girls. Then
it'll be the married women who'll fall in love with you. You'll have
to watch out."

"I've already been told that by my tailor," said Montague, with a
laugh.

"That would be a still quicker way of making your fortune," said
she. "But I don't think you'd fit in the role of a tame cat."

"A WHAT?" he exclaimed; and Miss Betty laughed.

"Don't you know what that is? Dear me--how charmingly naive! But
perhaps you'd better get Ollie to explain for you."

That brought the conversation to the subject of slang; and Montague,
in a sudden burst of confidence, asked for an interpretation of Miss
Price's cryptic utterance. "She said"--he repeated slowly--"that
when I got to be pally with her, I'd conclude she didn't furnish."

"Oh, yes," said Miss Wyman. "She just meant that when you knew her,
you'd be disappointed. You see, she picks up all the race-track
slang--one can't help it, you know. And last year she took her coach
over to England, and so she's got all the English slang. That makes
it hard, even for us."

And then Betty sailed in to entertain him with little sketches of
other members of the party. A phenomenon that had struck Montague
immediately was the extraordinary freedom with which everybody in
New York discussed everybody else. As a matter of fact, one seldom
discussed anything else; and it made not the least difference,
though the person were one of your set,--though he ate your bread
and salt, and you ate his,--still you would amuse yourself by
pouring forth the most painful and humiliating and terrifying things
about him.

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."

"Who's Mrs. Jack Warden?" asked Montague.

"Haven't you ever heard of her?" said Betty. "She used to be Mrs.
van Ambridge, and then she got a divorce and married Warden, the big
lumber man. She used to give 'boy and girl' parties, in the English
fashion; and when we went there we'd do as we please--play tag all
over the house, and have pillow-fights, and ransack the closets and
get up masquerades! Mrs. Warden's as good-natured as an old cow.
You'll meet her sometime--only don't you let her fool you with those
soft eyes of hers. You'll find she doesn't mean it; it's just that
she likes to have handsome men hanging round her."

At one o'clock a few of Robbie's guests went to bed, Montague among
them. He left two tables of bridge fiends sitting immobile, the
women with flushed faces and feverish hands, and the men with
cigarettes dangling from their lips. There were trays and decanters
beside each card-table; and in the hall he passed three youths
staggering about in each other's arms and feebly singing snatches of
"coon songs." Ollie and Betty had strolled away together to parts
unknown.

Montague had entered his name in the order-book to be called at nine
o'clock. The man who awakened him brought him coffee and cream upon
a silver tray, and asked him if he would have anything stronger. He
was privileged to have his breakfast in his room, if he wished; but
he went downstairs, trying his best to feel natural in his elaborate
hunting costume. No one else had appeared yet, but he found the
traces of last night cleared away, and breakfast ready--served in
English fashion, with urns of tea and coffee upon the buffet. The
grave butler and his satellites were in attendance, ready to take
his order for anything else under the sun that he fancied.

Montague preferred to go for a stroll upon the terrace, and to watch
the sunlight sparkling upon the sea. The morning was
beautiful--everything about the place was so beautiful that he
wondered how men and women could live here and not feel the spell of
it.

Billy Price came down shortly afterward, clad in a khaki hunting
suit, with knee kilts and button-pockets and gun-pads and Cossack
cartridge-loops. She joined him in a stroll down the beach, and
talked to him about the coming winter season, with its leading
personalities and events,--the Horse Show, which opened next week,
and the prospects for the opera, and Mrs. de Graffenried's opening
entertainment. When they came back it was eleven o'clock, and they
found most of the guests assembled, nearly all of them looking a
little pale and uncomfortable in the merciless morning light. As the
two came in they observed Bertie Stuyvesant standing by the buffet,
in the act of gulping down a tumbler of brandy. "Bertie has taken up
the 'no breakfast fad,'" said Billy with an ironical smile.

Then began the hunt. The equipment of "Black Forest" included a
granite building, steam-heated and elaborately fitted, in which an
English expert and his assistants raised imported
pheasants--magnificent bronze-coloured birds with long, floating
black tails. Just before the opening of the season they were dumped
by thousands into the covers--fat, and almost tame enough to be fed
by hand; and now came the "hunters."

First they drew lots, for they were to hunt in pairs, a man and a
woman. Montague drew Miss Vincent--"Little Raindrop in the
Mud-puddle." Then Ollie, who was master of ceremonies, placed them
in a long line, and gave them the direction; and at a signal they
moved through the forest; Following each person were two attendants,
to carry the extra guns and reload them; and out in front were men
to beat the bushes and scare the birds into flight.

Now Montague's idea of hunting had been to steal through the bayou
forests, and match his eyes against those of the wild turkey, and
shoot off their heads with a rifle bullet. So, when one of these
birds rose in front of him, he fired, and the bird dropped; and he
could have done it for ever, he judged--only it was stupid
slaughter, and it sickened him. However, if the creatures were not
shot, they must inevitably perish in the winter snows; and he had
heard that Robbie sent the game to the hospitals. Also, the score
was being kept, and Miss Vincent, who was something of a shot
herself, was watching him with eager excitement, being wild with
desire to beat out Billy Price and Chappie de Peyster, who were the
champion shots of the company. Baby de Mille, who was on his left,
and who could not shoot at all, was blundering along, puffing for
breath and eyeing him enviously; and the attendants at his back were
trembling with delight and murmuring their applause. So he shot on,
as long as the drive lasted, and again on their way back, over a new
stretch of the country. Sometimes the birds would rise in pairs, and
he would drop them both; and twice when a blundering flock took
flight in his direction he seized a second gun and brought down a
second pair. When the day's sport came to an end his score was
fifteen better than his nearest competitor, and he and his partner
had won the day.

They crowded round to congratulate him; first his partner, and then
his rivals, and his host and hostess. Montague found that he had
suddenly become a person of consequence. Some who had previously
taken no notice of him now became aware of his existence; proud
society belles condescended to make conversation with him, and
Clarrie Mason, who hated de Peyster, made note of a way to annoy
him. As for Oliver, he was radiant with delight. "When it came to
horses and guns, I knew you'd make good," he whispered.

Leaving the game to be gathered up in carts, they made their way
home, and there the two victors received their prizes. The man's
consisted of a shaving set in a case of solid gold, set with
diamonds. Montague was simply stunned, for the thing could not have
cost less than one or two thousand dollars. He could not persuade
himself that he had a right to accept of such hospitality, which he
could never hope to return. He was to realize in time that Robbie
lived for the pleasure of thus humiliating his fellow-men.

After luncheon, the party came to an end. Some set out to return as
they had come; and others, who had dinner engagements, went back
with their host in his private car, leaving their autos to be
returned by the chauffeurs. Montague and his brother were among
these; and about dusk, when the swarms of working people were
pouring out of the city, they crossed the ferry and took a cab to
their hotel.






CHAPTER V





They found their apartments looking as if they had been struck by a
snowstorm-a storm of red and green and yellow, and all the colours
that lie between. All day the wagons of fashionable milliners and
costumiers had been stopping at the door, and their contents had
found their way to Alice's room. The floors were ankle-deep in
tissue paper and tape, and beds and couches and chairs were covered
with boxes, in which lay wonderful symphonies of colour, half
disclosed in their wrappings of gauze. In the midst of it all stood
the girl, her eyes shining with excitement.

"Oh, Allan!" she cried, as they entered. "How am I ever to thank
you?"

"You're not to thank me," Montague replied. "This is all Oliver's
doings."

"Oliver!" exclaimed the girl, and turned to him. "How in the world
could you do it?" she cried. "How will you ever get the money to pay
for it all?"

"That's my problem," said the man, laughing. "All you have to think
about is to look beautiful."

"If I don't," was her reply, "it won't be for lack of clothes. I
never saw so many wonderful things in all my life as I've seen
to-day."

"There's quite a show of them," admitted Oliver.

"And Reggie Mann! It was so queer, Allan! I never went shopping with
a man before. And he's so--so matter-of-fact. You know, he bought
me--everything!"

"That was what he was told to do," said Oliver. "Did you like him?"

"I don't know," said the girl. "He's queer--I never met a man like
that before. But he was awfully kind; and the people just turned
their stores inside out for us--half a dozen people hurrying about
to wait on you at once!"

"You'll get used to such things," said Oliver; and then, stepping
toward the bed, "Let's see what you got."

"Most of the things haven't come," said Alice. "The gowns all have
to be fitted.--That one is for to-night," she added, as he lifted up
a beautiful object made of rose-coloured chiffon.

Oliver studied it, and glanced once or twice at the girl. "I guess
you can carry it," he said. "What sort of a cloak are you to wear?"

"Oh, the cloak!" cried Alice. "Oliver, I can't believe it's really
to belong to me. I didn't know anyone but princesses wore such
things."

The cloak was in Mrs. Montague's room, and one of the maids brought
it in. It was an opera-wrap of grey brocade, lined with unborn baby
lamb--a thing of a gorgeousness that made Montague literally gasp
for breath.

"Did you ever see anything like it in your life?" cried Alice. "And
Oliver, is it true that I have to have gloves and shoes and
stockings--and a hat--to match every gown?"

"Of course." said Oliver. "If you were doing things right, you ought
to have a cloak to match each evening gown as well."

"It seems incredible," said the girl. "Can it be right to spend so
much money for things to wear?"

But Oliver was not discussing questions of ethics; he was examining
sets of tinted crepe de chine lingerie, and hand-woven hose of spun
silk. There were boxes upon boxes, and bureau drawers and closet
shelves already filled up with hand-embroidered and lace-trimmed
creations-chemises and corset-covers, night-robes of "handkerchief
linen" lawn, lace handkerchiefs and veils, corsets of French coutil,
dressing-jackets of pale-coloured silks, and negligees of soft
batistes, trimmed with Valenciennes lace, or even with fur.

"You must have put in a full day," he said.

"I never looked at so many things in my life," said Alice. "And Mr.
Mann never stopped to ask the price of a thing."

"I didn't think to tell him to," said Oliver, laughing.

Then the girl went in to dress--and Oliver faced about to find his
brother sitting and staring hard at him.

"Tell me!" Montague exclaimed. "In God's name, what is all this to
cost?"

"I don't know," said Oliver, impassively. "I haven't seen the bills.
It'll be fifteen or twenty thousand, I guess."

Montague's hands clenched involuntarily, and he sat rigid. "How long
will it all last her?" he asked.

"Why," said the other, "when she gets enough, it'll last her until
spring, of course--unless she goes South during the winter."

"How much is it going to take to dress her for a year?"

"I suppose thirty or forty thousand," was the reply. "I don't expect
to keep count."

Montague sat in silence. "You don't want to shut her up and keep her
at home, do you?" inquired his brother, at last.

"Do you mean that other women spend that much on clothes?"
he'demanded.

"Of course," said Oliver, "hundreds of them. Some spend fifty
thousand--I know several who go over a hundred."

"It's monstrous!" Montague exclaimed.

"Fiddlesticks!" was the other's response. "Why, thousands of people
live by it--wouldn't know anything else to do."

Montague said nothing to that. "Can you afford to have Alice compete
with such women indefinitely?" he asked.

"I have no idea of her doing it indefinitely," was Oliver's reply.
"I simply propose to give her a chance. When she's married, her
bills will be paid by her husband."

"Oh," said the other, "then this layout is just for her to be
exhibited in."

"You may say that," answered Oliver,--"if you want to be foolish.
You know perfectly well that parents who launch their daughters in
Society don't figure on keeping up the pace all their lifetimes."

"We hadn't thought of marrying Alice off," said Montague.

To which his brother replied that the best physicians left all they
could to nature. "Suppose," said he, "that we just introduce her in
the right set, and turn her loose and let her enjoy herself--and
then cross the next bridge when we come to it?"

Montague sat with knitted brows, pondering.' He was beginning to see
a little daylight now. "Oliver," he asked suddenly, "are you sure
the stakes in this game aren't too big?"

"How do you mean?" asked the other.

"Will you be able to stay in until the show-down? Until either Alice
or myself begins to bring in some returns?"

"Never worry about that," said the other, with a laugh.

"But hadn't you better take me into your confidence?" Montague
persisted. "How many weeks can you pay our rent in this place? Have
you got the money to pay for all these clothes?"

"I've got it," laughed the other--"but that doesn't say I'm going to
pay it."

"Don't you have to pay your bills? Can we do all this upon credit?"

Oliver laughed again. "You go at me like a prosecuting attorney," he
said. "I'm afraid you'll have to inquire around and learn some
respect for your brother." Then he added, seriously, "You see,
Allan, people like Reggie or myself are in position to bring a great
deal of custom to tradespeople, and so they are willing to go out of
their way to oblige us. And we have commissions of all sorts coming
to us, so it's never any question of cash."

"Oh!" exclaimed the other, opening his eyes, "I see! Is that the way
you make money?"

"It's one of the ways we save it," said Oliver. "It comes to the
same thing."

"Do people know it?"

"Why, of course. Why not?"

"I don't know," said Montague. "It sounds a little queer."

"Nothing of the kind," said Oliver. "Some of the best people in New
York do it. Strangers come to the city, and they want to go to the
right places, and they ask me, and I send them. Or take Robbie
Walling, who keeps up five or six establishments, and spends several
millions a year. He can't see to it all personally--if he did, he'd
never do anything else. Why shouldn't he ask a friend to attend to
things for him? Or again, a now shop opens, and they want Mrs.
Waiting's trade for the sake of the advertising, and they offer her
a discount and me a commission. Why shouldn't I get her to try
them?"

"It's quite intricate," commented the other. "The stores have more
than one price, then?"

"They have as many prices as they have customers," was the answer.
"Why shouldn't they? New York is full of raw rich people who value
things by what they pay. And why shouldn't they pay high and be
happy? That opera-cloak that Alice has--Reval promised it to me for
two thousand, and I'll wager you she'd charge some woman from Butte,
Montana, thirty-five hundred for one just like it."

Montague got up suddenly. "Stop," he said, waving his hands. "You
take all the bloom off the butterfly's wings!"

He asked where they were going that evening, and Oliver said that
they were invited to an informal dinner-party at Mrs. Winnie
Duval's. Mrs. Winnie was the young widow who had recently married
the founder of the great banking-house of Puval and Co.--so Oliver
explained; she was a chum of his, and they would meet an interesting
set there. She was going to invite her cousin, Charlie Carter--she
wanted him to meet Alice. "Mrs. Winnie's always plotting to get
Charlie to settle down," said Oliver, with a merry laugh.

He telephoned for his man to bring over his clothes, and he and his
brother dressed. Then Alice came in, looking like the goddess of the
dawn in the gorgeous rose-coloured gown. The colour in her cheeks
was even brighter than usual; for she was staggered to find how low
the gown was cut, and was afraid she was committing a faux pas.
"Tell me about it," she stammered. "Mammy Lucy says I'm surely
supposed to wear some lace, or a bouquet."

"Mammy Lucy isn't a Paris costumier," said Oliver, much amused.
"Dear me--wait until you have seen Mrs. Winnie!"

Mrs. Winnie had kindly sent her limousine car for them, and it stood
throbbing in front of the hotel-entrance, its acetylenes streaming
far up the street. Mrs. Winnie's home was on Fifth Avenue, fronting
the park. It occupied half a block, and had cost two millions to
build and furnish. It was known as the "Snow Palace," being all of
white marble.

At the curb a man in livery opened the door of the car, and in the
vestibule another man in livery bowed the way. Lined up just inside
the door was a corps of imposing personages, clad in scarlet
waistcoats and velvet knee-breeches, with powdered wigs, and gold
buttons, and gold buckles on their patent-leather pumps. These
splendid creatures took their wraps, and then presented to Montague
and Oliver a bouquet of flowers upon a silver salver, and upon
another salver a tiny envelope bearing the name of their partner at
this strictly "informal" dinner-party. Then the functionaries stood
out of the way and permitted them to view the dazzling splendour of
the entrance hall of the Snow Palace. There was a great marble
staircase running up from the centre of the hall, with a carved
marble gallery above, and a marble fireplace below. To decorate this
mansion a real palace in the Punjab had been bought outright and
plundered; there were mosaics of jade, and wonderful black marble,
and rare woods, and strange and perplexing carvings.

The head butler stood at the entrance to the salon, pronouncing
their names; and just inside was Mrs. Winnie.

Montague never forgot that first vision of her; she might have been
a real princess out of the palace in the Punjab. She was a brunette,
rich-coloured, full-throated and deep-bosomed, with scarlet lips,
and black hair and eyes. She wore a court-gown of cloth of silver,
with white kid shoes embroidered with jewelled flowers. All her life
she had been collecting large turquoises, and these she had made
into a tiara, and a neck ornament spreading over her chest, and a
stomacher. Each of these stones was mounted with diamonds, and set
upon a slender wire. So as she moved they quivered and shimmered,
and the effect was dazzling, barbaric.

She must have seen that Montague was staggered, for she gave him a
little extra pressure of the hand, and said, "I'm so glad you came.
Ollie has told me all about you." Her voice was soft and melting,
not so forbidding as her garb.

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.