ringing of a bell and the rising of a curtain, Bellevue Avenue became
suddenly alive with carriages. The big gates seemed to yawn
simultaneously and discharge their expensive freight. It was as if these
actors in the Newport drama would lose their weekly salary did they step
on the boards a moment too late. The avenue, with its gay frocks and
parasols, was like a long flower-bed in spring. Webb's cigar went out.
He leaned forward eagerly, straining his eyes.

In some of the superb traps were decrepit old dowagers wagging their
feeble heads, wondering, perhaps, how much longer their millions would
keep them alive. Sometimes their young heirs were with them, patient and
placid. Others were pitifully alone. Several men were on horseback,
riding in the agonized fashion of the day. There were carriages full of
girls with complexions of ivory and claret, air of ineffable daintiness.
Now and then a victoria would roll by in which women lolled, heavily
veiled with crape. Webb wondered if they really could sorrow like common
folks. Mingling with the superb turnouts were barouches unmistakably
hired, occupied by people dressed with a certain cheap smartness. Here
and there a girl, probably of the people, cantered half defiantly down
the line, a sailor-hat on her head, her jacket open over a shirt and
"four-in-hand." Once a yoke of oxen, driven by a bareheaded maid,
straggled into the throng.

The avenue before the hotel became deserted once more. The upper end was
blocked with carriages, all apparently bent in the same direction.
Andrew ran down the steps, half inclined to follow, half fearing they
would never return. A number of open hacks stood before the hotel. A
driver immediately approached Andrew.

"Like a drive, sir?"